


Halcyon

by Anaands



Series: New China [3]
Category: The Last Ship (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Dynamics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29604234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaands/pseuds/Anaands
Summary: Sequel to Vengeance. Having secured the seeds and delivered them to the United States, the crew shifts its focus to re-building and integrating back into "normal" life. Tom and Sasha make a run at their "fresh start" but find things aren't as simple as they seem. Tomsha centric with supporting appearances from the gang. Part of the New China universe.
Relationships: Kara Foster/Danny Green, Tom Chandler/Sasha Cooper
Series: New China [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173398
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> an. back again with the third installment in my 'New China" universe. Halcyon picks up a few months after the end of Vengeance and is heavily non-canon. This installment will lay the groundwork for the version of season 5 that I have planned. You will recognize themes but treat the rest of the show as non-canon at this point for the purpose of this story. One thing that I found jarring was just how prosperous America was so quickly after losing another 200,000+ people. I know it's just a show, and you have to suspend disbelief, still, I don't think the US, or the rest of the world for that matter, would be so easily fixed in 3 years after suffering a global pandemic, and a global famine back to back. I've done my best to balance a slightly more realistic approach to rebuilding within my version of Season 4's context because it's a significant factor in the decisions that our characters make. That being said, on with the story!
> 
> My heart is like a singing bird  
> Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;  
> My heart is like an apple-tree  
> Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;  
> My heart is like a rainbow shell  
> That paddles in a halcyon sea;  
> My heart is gladder than all these  
> Because my love is come to me.
> 
> .
> 
> \- Christina Rosetti, "A Birthday"
> 
> 1861

**Tuesday, March 8th** **, 2016** — **White House, St. Louis, Missouri**

Sasha was busy typing away when her vibrating cell caught her attention. She glanced over, smiling a little at the Caller ID. "How'd it go?" she immediately asked.

" _I'm officially cleared for desk duty again_ — _Doc thinks I'll be combat-ready by six months."_

She did the math in her head quickly. By June, he'd be completely healed and ready for deployments and possible ground missions again—if he wanted that, of course. "Mmm, well that's exciting, right?" furrowed her brow, he didn't sound particularly thrilled.

" _Yeah. We'll talk about it when you get home."_

She sat back in her chair, giving her full attention to the call instead of the reports she'd been working on. "You're still not sure if you wanna come back?" she asked quietly. Heard him sigh, could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he did it. When he'd reactivated his commission in Greece, it had been with the sole intent to deliver the seeds to America. To find another cure for the Red Rust. He'd made good on his commitment as far as he was concerned.

" _I don't know Sash, the kids are finally settling down, we have a routine… yeah, part of me is jealous as hell that Mike's gonna build a fleet from the James, but…"_

She hung her head slightly contemplating. Wished she had the answers for him, but none of them did. "We'll figure it out—I could always use some help here, at the White House. I'm sure Oliver would give you your old job back in a heartbeat. Maybe you could help me with the thrilling logistics I plan every day," she suggested, not masking the sarcasm at the end of the statement. It earned her a slight chuckle, which was all she was really going for.

" _Sounds about as fun as the kid's homework."_

She tipped her head to the side in agreement. "You're not wrong."

" _What time will you be home? You want me to wait to make your dinner?"_

She frowned and glanced over at the wall clock—hadn't even realized it was so late, almost past 7. "Actually, I'll leave now—didn't notice the time." The sound of rustling let him know she'd started packing up.

" _Okay, I'll see you soon_ — _drive safe."_

The corners of her eyes crinkled with fondness, still finding it sweet that he ended every call with some variation of asking her to be safe. Some people said I love you—he told her he needed her home, in not so many words.

"Always, bye."

* * *

Tom looked up when he heard the garage door open. Smiled when she rounded the corner and appeared in the kitchen. He still wasn't quite used to seeing her so put together every day. President Oliver had asked Sasha to serve as his Primary Intelligence Officer—a recommendation from a former CIA department head serving in office. They needed to seriously re-build intelligence assets and were severely lacking expertise. Frankly, after sitting around for nearly three months with nothing to do but ferry Tom back and forth to his PT appointments and epitomize the domesticated homebody, she'd been more than ready to go back. Having taken a look, it was clear she could add value. Though—she had specified that she need to be land-based. Didn't want to deploy again. Things were going well. Really well, and she and Tom were entirely on track with their ' _happy ever after' s_ he didn't want to shake that up by leaving again.

"Hey, how was work?"

Sasha rounded the island to give him a quick kiss and he took her bag from her, setting it down while she shrugged off her jacket. "Good, busy," she answered, absently looking for a glass to fix herself some wine. Noticed after a few moments that he'd already poured one and it was waiting for her at the dinner table. She gave him an appreciative look. "How'd you know?" her shoulders slumped with relief. Kicked off her shoes, her bones protesting how long they'd been stuffed into mid-heel pumps. Dressing nicely and feeling like a woman was undoubtedly nice—but god, she missed wearing boots and comfortable clothes every day.

"It's past six-thirty," he mused, hand hovering in the small of her back as he walked with her to the table.

"Hm," she hummed in acknowledgment. "I talked to Mike today. Nathan James is officially out of dry dock," she said, taking a bite of the simple pasta dish he'd made. There were still extreme food shortages, and though they were given preferential treatment when it came to rations thanks to their service, it was pretty much packaged foods, not many greens, and canned goods from the federal reserves. Their scientists had finally produced a viable specimen containing the cure in mid-February, but until the first yield of crops had its chance to produce, they were still very far from solving the famine. The Velleck's had been little to no help, and the Doctor had committed suicide within a month of being detained. It had cost them months of failed attempts in engineering cured crops, and they were still trying to figure out exactly how Velleck had intended to input that same cure into locusts. To stabilize it and use them as a vector. They were crowdsourcing with the entire world at this point, but as of yet—no nation had cracked the code.

Tom inclined his head, "When are they heading out?"

"By the end of the week, President wants them assisting supply runs again," she mumbled while chewing, taking a sip of the wine to wash down her food. Tom pulled a face which she caught. "I'm a little jealous too—I actually miss it, even the lukewarm showers," she admitted tipping her head slightly and raising an eyebrow. He made eye contact with her, his expression letting her know he felt the same way. The pull—the mixed priorities. The love of having a mission and the sea at their feet. Yet ultimately, the need to re-engage with land-based life had won out.

Their attention was drawn by the sound of heavy feet bounding down the stairs, probably two at a time. Tom closed his eyes in frustration, and Sasha smiled ruefully—no matter how many times he told his son not to drag his feet, he just didn't seem to listen.

"Hi Sasha," Sam greeted as he spotted them.

"Hi! How was school today?" she asked brightly as he shuffled over, a sheet of paper in tow.

"Good, Mrs. Decker gave me an A in Spanish," said with excitement. Sasha made a face of surprise playing along. "She did!?" He nodded enthusiastically.

"Yeah she said my homework was the best in the class and then Dad said I had to remember to say thank you because you helped me with it."

"You're very welcome," she replied graciously, not missing the frown on Tom's face—that wasn't what he'd envisioned as a thank you, but Sam was right back to talking a mile a minute before he could correct him.

"So I was wondering if you might maybe be able to help me again with this new one?" he pushed the paper in her direction.

"Sam," Tom interjected, "boundaries. Remember?" he gestured to the table slightly in exasperation to accentuate his point. "Sasha is eating her dinner, and she just got home."

Sam's eyes went wide, and he pulled the paper back quickly. Remembering several recent lectures from his dad about what was and was not appropriate. Things like not opening closed doors without knocking, being quiet in the mornings until he was sure everyone else was awake, waiting for people to finish what they were doing before asking them to do something else… "Sorry," he said quickly.

Sasha chuckled and shook her head. "It's okay, why don't you give me an hour, and I'll come up and help you?" came her suggestion, as well as a kind smile.

"Thanks Sasha, you're the best!" he shuffled off, climbing loudly up the stairs while Tom looked on at a loss.

"What am I doing wrong?" he groaned, scrubbing hands over his face in frustration.

"He just gets excited," she said tenderly, smiling fondly because she'd developed quite the soft spot for Sam. He was just too innocent and loveable, still twelve years old and not yet full of the teenage angst like Ashely could be.

"I tell him something, and it's like five minutes goes by, and he's forgotten the entire conversation. I feel like I'm talking to a wall," Tom said with fatigue, he took the glass from her hands and drank.

"He's not like one of your sailors, kids don't just fall in line," she joked, and he side-eyed her.

"If he was, then he'd be you. You never listened to me either."

"But you loved me anyway." A tease while taking her glass back. "Have you thought about what you want to do?" Changing the subject back to their call.

"I don't know... part of me wants to be out there, probably always will. But I have to be here for the kids. I can't risk getting pulled again, passing them off to different strangers every time there's a crisis. It's not fair to them."

"True, but I'd be here if you did get pulled, and the Greens are just down the street. It wouldn't be the same as it was before," she offered.

"I can't ask you to do that," he said sincerely, though touched that she'd do that for him. For them. "You already do more than enough."

"I'm serious, Tom. I really could use your help," she replied, moving her head to accentuate her point. "About the only useful thing I've found is that program you started before Asia. The personnel files? Logistically there's just so much to consider. I don't even know where to start," she admitted. "The skill gap? The lack of resources? I can't even plan a supply run in less than a week. We need solid manufacturing, we need trade routes, agreements, fuel, food, concrete communications—it just goes on and on, and I can't even make a dent cause I just don't have enough skilled people to do it," she said impassioned.

"Even if you don't wanna be CNO—if we had you as an advisor, it would make things a hell of a lot easier," she finished, picking at a few more pieces of food before drowning the rest of her glass. Tom pondered her quietly. Processed. It wasn't actually a half-bad idea. He could stay enlisted and take on an administrative position under her branch. There would be no travel, knew she'd make sure of that. No life or death decisions in his hands. He'd still be helping, in a very real, meaningful way. Still be able to keep his finger on the pulse, so to speak. Could be around for the kids if they needed him. Take them to school and drop them off—like a regular father.

"It's not a bad idea," he agreed after a time, giving her a look.

Sasha smiled slightly, a twinkle in her eye. "Is that your way of saying I can talk to Oliver?" tone entirely too hopeful for him to deny. Took a few more moments to think about it before he nodded once. It earned him a happy smile, and she leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

"I think this means I'm your boss," she said suggestively, and he groaned.

" _Now_ it makes sense."

She laughed. "Never thought I'd see the day. Sasha really does know best, huh?" she joked to which he gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes and a smirk. She'd never forgotten that comment, and it showed.

"Aye aye," he replied sarcastically, earning him another laugh. Tom grabbed her glass and went to the kitchen to refill it for her, the sound of her happiness following him.

"You were so mad at me!" she teased, humor in her tone.

"You called me Tom in front of my crew!" he defended.

" _That's_ what you were mad about? Not the fact that I called you out?"

"That too, but mostly Tom. At least at the base you called me Sir."

"That's because I had to, for obvious reasons." .

"I was the CNO!?"

"And? My orders came from Michener, not you, _Admiral_. Despite you telling me to fall in line," she countered with a wry expression, accepting the glass that Tom bought back to her in addition to his own.

"Well scuttlebutt had a field day with it," he grumbled, sitting down again at the table.

Sasha pulled a face at him. "Oh come on. That started because you can't help but look at me every time I walk in a room. Not to mention your tone, and that display in the Helo bay," said sassily.

Tom scoffed, his head recoiling back. "My tone?" he said skeptically.

Sasha pouted and turned her head to the side. "Tom, you don't speak to me the way you do everyone else. Unless I've stepped on your balls again, it's softer," she said as if it were completely obvious.

He somewhat pouted and took a drink instead. "That like some universal code?" Rhetorical, he was playing dumb. Tom knew he did it—unconsciously at times, a habit he'd never been able to break.

"Something like that," she mused.

* * *

Sasha groaned in satisfaction as she slipped under the covers. One of the best things they'd done was find a decent mattress for them both. After years of sleeping on hard surfaces and lumpy beds, it was indeed an indulgent experience. Tom finished brushing his teeth and switched off the lights before climbing in next to her, immediately moving his pillow closer so they could spoon. She rolled to her side as he settled behind her, his hand slipping under her shirt, feet tangling with hers. Kissed the back of her head, the scent of her shampoo filling his senses, and he lingered there for a moment, breathing it in, committing it to memory.

"Goodnight," he mumbled.

"Goodnight," she echoed, eyes already heavy with exhaustion.

He was pulled from sleep by the sound of faint knocking at the door. Took him a few moments for his brain to catch up. He glanced down at Sasha—she hadn't heard it yet to his relief. She still wasn't sleeping enough, probably the only point of contention in their relationship over the past few months. Sometimes he'd wake to use the bathroom to find her missing from the bed, sitting downstairs on the sofa with her laptop, or quietly watching re-runs of old shows. Then there were the night-terrors. The first time he'd seen it, he'd caught a right hook trying to wake her and stop her from scratching her skin raw. Their bedsheets left damp from her sweat. Those were the ones that scared him—they weren't every night, sometimes they'd go weeks or almost a month without one – but when they came, he was terrified. And she refused to talk about it, every time it was the same. 'I'm _sorry for waking you, don't worry about it, it's just a dream, and I'm fine.'_ Whatever that was, it was _not_ fine.

Tom slipped his arm out from under her and walked as quietly as possible to the door—stepping out to find Ashley on the other side, arms wrapped around herself in the fluffy robe she preferred. "What's wrong, sweetie? Did you have a bad dream?" he whispered, voice thick with sleep.

He saw her hesitate before she shook her head. "Is Sasha there? I didn't see her downstairs," she asked quietly. Sometimes when she went to get a drink, she'd run into her, sat with her for a bit while they watched shows.

He made a confused expression. "She's sleeping Ash—what is it? I can take care of it," he assured her.

She looked exasperated and shook her head. "Dad, can you just get Sasha?" she asked again as he continued to look torn. " _Please._ "

Tom studied her for a moment longer, brows furrowed with concern before he sighed. "Give me a minute," he said. Walking back into their room. Sasha was already sitting up, wiping her eyes and squinting up at him—their conversation, however hushed, had stirred her.

"What's wrong?"

"Ash is outside, says she wants you, and won't tell me why." Her expression registered concern, and she lifted the sheets, swinging her legs around, shivering slightly as the cool air hit her warmed skin. He noticed and went to the bathroom to get a robe for her. "I'm sorry," he started quietly, using hushed tones so Ashley couldn't hear them as he helped her put it on. She cut him off with a hand gesture.

"Tom, it's okay—I'll take care of it." Squeezing the hand that was lingering by hers and giving him a tired smile. Ashely was shuffling nervously on her feet when she emerged, closing the door softly behind her. She looked relieved when she saw Sasha, who was squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light. "Hey, what's going on?"

Ashely bit her lip, she looked nervous about something and glanced at the door. She was sure her dad was eavesdropping. Ear probably pressed against it on the other side so he could hear. "Can we go to my room?"

"Of course," Sasha answered, following her down the hall.

When they reached the bedroom, and Ashley had checked a couple more times that her dad wasn't lurking in the hallway, she spoke. "I think I started my period, and it kind of got on my sheets. I didn't want Dad to come out here if I changed them," she was staring at the floor and had mumbled the words out.

Sasha relaxed significantly, a slightly audible sigh of relief escaping her lips. "Okay, we can take care of that," she assured not making it a big deal. Ashely nodded at her, still looking wholly mortified. Sasha gave her a small reassuring smile before heading to the linen closet to grab some fresh sheets. Ashley had already stripped the bed and the protective under sheet—thankfully, it hadn't soaked through the mattress. "Why don't you go take a quick shower while I do this, and I'll go get you some stuff from my bathroom?"

"Okay," Ashley mumbled. Still staring at the floor and avoiding eye contact. Sasha sighed; she felt for the girl—remembering how awkward her own experience had been.

"Ashley?" Sasha called before she made it through the door to the jack and jill bathroom. "You have nothing to be embarrassed about. It's normal, okay? Sometimes still happens to me too," she reassured her, glad that it seemed to help because Ashley relaxed more, releasing some of the tension from her body.

"Thanks Sasha," she said sincerely, and Sasha smiled back at her.

"Anytime—you know that."

The minute Sasha stepped back into their bedroom, Tom stood. He'd been perched on the bed, trying to figure out what could possibly be wrong that Ashley didn't feel comfortable sharing with him. Before he could get a word out, Sasha enlightened him.

"She started her period."

He made an _'oh'_ expression of understanding, visibly relaxing, before a heaviness set in. "She could have told me that?" Was he really that bad that she didn't think she could come to him with something like that? He couldn't help but feel like he'd failed her. That he was inadequate.

"Tom, she's a teenage girl—just trust me? It's not about you. She knows you're there for her, it's just some things are easier…" She trailed off. Not wanting to say Mother, but it was too late. Saw that same sadness creep into his eyes. The sadness that appeared anytime he thought about Darien. Anytime a real-life example harshly reminded him of the things his kids were missing without her to guide them anymore. He looked down at the carpet solemnly, and her shoulders slumped. Sasha walked over and reached out, caressing the side of his face gently. Placed a comforting kiss on his temple. She understood, she really did. She let him go and wordlessly moved to their bathroom to grab some things for Ashely.

"I'll be back in a bit. Why don't you try and go back to sleep," she suggested though she was sure he'd be up for the rest of the night punishing himself over Darien. Tom pushed his feet through the carpet somewhat to distract himself, pulling them back and forth absently.

"Thank you. For helping her, I know you're tired."

"You don't have to keep thanking me, Tom. Your kids aren't a burden. I'm here with you, remember? We're a team. Teams take care of each other." Her comment effectively silencing him and soothing his doubts. Tom finally looked up at her then, barely contained adoration in his eyes—she would have been an incredible Mother had she chosen to be. If he were honest with himself, it felt like he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the rug to be pulled out on their _'happily ever after'._ All things considered, it was so easy to be with her. Almost too easy.

"I love you," he said simply.

Her nose wrinkled like it did whenever she found him sweet, "Love you too. Go back to sleep."


	2. Chapter 2

**Tuesday, March 15th, 2016** **—** **USS. Nathan James, Caribbean Sea, Approaching the Panama Canal, 0900 hours, local time.**

Mike stood on the Bridge of the James, the door to the Pilot House open, allowing the sea's sound and the salt laced air to permeate the room. It was a beautiful day, 82 degrees and sunny **—** a southern bound breeze of 6mph lapping at the ocean's spray. He was proud to be at the helm on their maiden voyage after three and a half months dry dock. They'd set sail two days prior from Mayport with supplies and equipment to deliver to their base in San Diego. Commander Garnett stood happily to his left **—** a serene expression of calm as they did what they knew best.

"Sir, I'm picking up some surface contacts on radar, they appear to be small shipping vessels – but the pattern, Sir? It seems like they're blocking the canal." His Lt. spoke. He frowned and walked over to the console, verifying the information for himself. He frowned as he studied the map – that was a blockade alright.

"OOD, come to full stop!"

_"Aye, sir_ **—** _CCS Bridge, Come to full stop."_

"Master Chief, set General Quarters **—** I'm not taking any chances," Mike commanded.

"Yes Sir," Jeter confirmed, making his way to the intercom. "All hands set General Quarters," he instructed, the crew immediately responding.

"What do you think it is?" Garnett asked, the concern evident in her tone.

"Goddamn Pirates! I thought we were done with that in Asia." Mike muttered under his breath. "I need to get a hold of the Commander in Chief," he said. Stalking out to head to their communications center.

* * *

March 15th, 2016—White House, St. Louis Missouri

"Well, you've been here for less than three hours, and there's already a crisis," Sasha said dryly. Tom looked up at the sound of her voice, she'd invited herself into his office without so much as a knock and thrown a communications file down in front of him.

"Nice to see you too,' he deadpanned. Earning himself a small smirk. He picked up the file and scanned it. "Pirates?" he surmised skeptically.

"Pirates," she confirmed, a tilt of her head, and a hand gesture as if she were presenting him a great gift, effectively illustrating the irony of it. It's like they were going in big circles. Repeating the same scenarios over and over again.

"And they've taken the Panama Canal," he said, not hiding the skepticism in his voice.

"It would appear that way, and with it, they just cut off the supply mission that I have spent the last _ten days_ , planning." She was pissed off, that much he could tell.

Tom sighed, "And we didn't have this intel **—** "

"Because we don't have up-to-date, _real_ intelligence in the region," she finished for him, giving him a big fake smile. She was right to be angry. Like she'd said, he'd been there for less than three hours, and it was immediately apparent that the famine had as good as erased much of the progress Michener had made. Oliver hadn't been dealt a fair hand; inheriting Shaw's mess had been a considerable burden to overcome. The level of distrust at an all-time high, and just as he'd managed to turn the tide, the rust hit. And slowly, but surely, entire regions **—** mostly outside of the main cities were plunged back into chaos.

Their land convoys were constantly hit and raided. They'd lost yet more from the populous of skilled, essential workers **—** foreign agreements and trade deals thrown to the wayside as each nation scrambled to protect itself and their own, while they searched for the seeds. And Now? Now that they'd developed a cure and shared the science? The political grandstanding to hold the US at ransom **—** crops in exchange for fuel **—** had reached its tipping point. And they hadn't even produced their first yield yet. Wouldn't have enough to feed their own people in that first batch, let alone share product with the rest of the world. They weren't trying to horde **—** there simply was not enough to go around.

"You sending Vulture Team to do recon?"

Sasha gave him a wry smile in response to that question **—** reminded again of just how much she liked working with him. "You know it. James is hanging back from the bay, out of sight but in range. Green's leading an amphib team tonight to go check it out. Let us know what we're up against."

"Good. In the meantime **—** who do I talk to about this?" face scrunched up in disgust, handing her a report. She scanned it quickly, it was a summary of their current fuel reserves across all four branches, along with an estimated consumption rate and various other data points, concluded with recommendations on where best to allocate allowances.

"Stevens **—** first name's Pete." She handed it back to him, and he took it back with a slight flare in his wrist.

"It's wrong," he declared. Oh, she did not doubt that, she wet her lip slightly and exhaled. "That's because he was a corporate attorney for a big shot Petroleum company, prior to becoming the most closely qualified candidate Oliver could find for Secretary of the Interior," she deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. "Has great knowledge of our energy operations, both domestic and foreign, but a strategist, he is not."

"I see," he responded the inclination of his head telling.

"We lose that canal, Tom... we're gonna be in a world of shit. West coast operations need supplies desperately. And with how low our reserves are? We can't afford to keep sending land convoys and planes. It's the most inefficient and fuel-intensive method we have."

"What about the partnership with Canada?" having remembered it referenced in the fuel report. Sasha made a face that let him know it wasn't an option yet.

"Secretary of Foreign Affairs is working it **—** but we're stalled in negotiations. They want too much food, and we can't spare it." Tom scrubbed a frustrated hand over his face. He'd forgotten just how many moving parts there were; how long it had taken to get simple initiatives off the ground with twelve other cooks in the kitchen, let alone the political nonsense. "Now you know why I need you," she quipped. "We don't have many intelligence assets left. I already tapped everyone I could from what's left of the CIA, but ultimately, they're Hughes assets, and she gets preference on operations." He furrowed his brow slightly, mentally recalling the introductions he'd been given this morning. "She has the skills at least former department head, but, between us, and them? We're stretched thin. Her teams got us secure intel in the middle east, but we still need them there **—** last thing we want is to lose our pulse on Saudi and Omar."

Tom gave her a distinct look of agreement **—** it had been bad enough when he'd deployed to Iraq. If there was one place on Earth that he never wanted to be again, it was the middle east. It was an entirely different game over there, one that had taken him about five years to get right from. "They ever manage to finish the audit of our continental bases?"

Sasha smiled slightly because he was thinking on her wavelength. "No, they did not. Focused on the main chokepoints and diverted personal to those. Then Shaw and the regional leaders set about trashing the records of what we _had_ done as she went. The generals we have left compiled as much intel as they have but, there's gaps. Wasn't a focus as much as figuring out food reserves and ration segments."

"Well, why don't I start there. Might find something we don't know we have." He mumbled.

Sasha inclined her head. "You read my mind. I'll bring you everything I've found so far." Heading back to her office to grab a box of files.

* * *

**Tuesday, March 15th, 2016—Panama Canal—2300 hours local time**

Burk, Green, and Wolf emerged from the water slowly. Night vision binoculars fixed on their target. Danny grimaced slightly. The water was slick with a layer of oily pollution, runoff from the amount of crap that dredged through the channel. He motioned for them to approach an appropriately secluded ban **—** made silent, efficient work of traversing it before settling themselves out of sight.

They observed with binoculars; this was more than just pirates. There were military trucks on the ground and forces, wearing what looked like Panamanian insignias **—** but there was something that didn't quite fit about the way they'd arranged themselves. It seemed disorganized. Haphazard and poorly thought out. Multiple attack points left open. He scanned; further, the vessels they had blocking the canal were civilian ships. Shipping vessels mixed with fuel barges. Green pulled his binoculars back to exchange confused looks with both Wolf and Burk.

"Rebels?" whispered.

"That's my best guess," Burk agreed while Wolf gave a nod.

* * *

**Wednesday, March 16th, 2016—White House, St. Louis Missouri, 0700 hours**

Both Sasha and Tom stood at the communications center. They'd asked Debbie to run the kids to school, as well as had her pick them up yesterday. Tom didn't want them to walk or have to use the bus system. Darien had always taken them. She'd felt it important for them to have someone there, and he agreed. He hadn't even made it two days, and the routine had already started to break down, the one he wanted to keep to for the kids' sake. The one he told himself was important because it personified him "being there". They'd stayed well past 8 o'clock last night; Ashely had made Sam dinner and was already helping him with his homework by the time they'd come home. They were here today at the crack of dawn. He already felt guilty.

The comms specialist indicated they were live and about to receive a transmission from the James, so they picked up their headsets.

 _"White House, this is Nathan James actual reporting as scheduled."_ Came Slattery's voice.

"Nathan James, White House actual **—** I have someone here that would like to say hi," Sasha replied, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. Tom returned it before speaking.

"How's my ship, Mike?" Tom asked **—** a routine for them. He heard Mike chuckle on the other line.

_"Doing just fine, surprised to hear your voice! Does that mean Sasha finally convinced you to come back?"_

She looked sheepish and crossed her arms slightly, avoiding his eyes.

"Eh, not quite **—** though she is my temporary boss, so…" he trailed off, keeping the tone light but filing the information away for later **—** another chuckle from Mike.

_"Oh, I'd pay to see that."_

"I'm sure you would," she chimed in, "what can you tell me?" focusing the conversation back to the intel.

_"Well, we're not dealing with pirates. They're rebels. They've commandeered weapons and ground trucks from the Panamanian Military; using shipping boats to block the canal. Green did a little ground reconnaissance and found them setting up multiple checkpoints along the banks. Right now, they're only letting local traffic through, and pilfering any other ships for supplies."_

Sasha squeezed her eyes closed and pinched her nose. This was worse than expected. "How many?"

 _"Green counted around 100 soldiers at each checkpoint. Spread that down the entire length of the canal… well, you can do the math."_ He said grimly.

"Any idea whose leading them?" Tom asked, his brow furrowed.

 _"Negative. Wasn't safe for the team to make contact with any civilians."_ Mike said.

"Damn it," Sasha muttered to herself. "Alright, set a course back to Mayport. President wants those supplies, and we're just gonna have to do it the old-fashioned way. I'll do what I can to get answers from my end. White House, out."

_"Nathan James copies all. Roger out."_

Sasha motioned to the coms specialist to end the transmission taking off her headset. Tom made eye contact with her, this was bad, and they both knew it. Sasha exhaled and shook her head, silently communicating her trepidation to him. The same apprehension she knew he felt. "I'll brief the President. You'll get this to the analysts?" He nodded once at her, and she left.

* * *

**Friday, March 18th, 2016—St. Louis, Missouri**

After the whirlwind of his first week back, Tom was relieved for the weekend. That was the silver lining. The fact that he got one of those, despite their work being critically important **—** it wasn't the same as being on a mission. It was a job where they went home every-day, slept in the same bed, put down the files, and acted like normal human beings – not people that held the fate of humanity directly in their hands for weeks and months on end.

Tom descended the stairs. The kids were in bed. He was showered and shaved and enjoying the simple comfort of wearing sweatpants around his house, while everyone he cared about most was safe under his roof.

"Babe?" he called **—** most all the lights were off except for the orange glow of a small table lamp in the living room. It was almost midnight, and while she'd stopped for dinner – she'd spent most of the night quietly distracted. Had set up in the oversized armchair after eating and had been camped there ever since. Tom knew her to be a workaholic, but there was an edge. A sadness about her tonight. She seemed off, had dismissed it as being tired when he'd asked if she was okay, but it was more than that. He could tell.

She looked up as he stepped into her field of vision and gave him a soft smile that didn't quite reach her glassy eyes. "Hey," she whispered.

He frowned with concern and tipped his head to the left somewhat. "You sure you're okay?" he asked compassionately, moving to crouch down to be at eye-level with her. She squinted slightly, touched by his approach. Her attention shifted towards the manila folder perched on the arm of the chair she was hiding in. Sasha picked it up gracefully, inhaling as she did. He could tell she was nervous about something, decided that waiting patiently for her to open up was the best course of action.

She set her lips in a firm line, and she brought it towards her. Holding it above her lap for a few moments while she considered opening it. After a pregnant pause, she made her decision, and wordlessly pulled the contents out and showed it to him. Tom took it from her and waited for her to elaborate. It was a printout from a satellite feed; the time stamp said it had been taken that day around sixteen hundred. Tom was a little confused **—** it wasn't an asset or a base.

"It's my house." His eyes moved from the file back to her. Understanding now why she'd been acting this way all night. "I think I'm ready. This proves it's still standing at least…" she stopped again. Not quite able to voice everything she was thinking. Being vulnerable had never been easy for her. "I need to know." She finally decided on. Voice stronger and more convicted. "And, I was hoping you would go with me, but maybe Debbie could keep the kids? Just for a weekend?" It was cautious, and it dawned on him then that maybe that's why she was worried. That somehow, he'd take offense that she wanted them to do this alone. Not just the fact that she'd been putting this off for so long **—** running from it.

"Of course," he said smoothly, eyes warm and reassuring. A plethora of emotions flickered over her face for a second. Surprise, relief, curiosity. Though he noticed, he didn't press it. Didn't want to tease her for the misplaced anxiety over what he might say to her asking to take a road trip with her, sans children.

"I don't want you to think that I'm trying to make you **—** " _choose._

He took her hand in his own to cut her off, "I don't," he assured her readily. "When do you wanna go?"

"Next weekend? I already mapped out a route. We shouldn't have any trouble, the looting happens on the main supply runs. Take us about twelve hours one way. Figured we could do six hours each?"

The pad of his thumb stroked her hand lovingly. "I'll ask Debbie in the morning."

The corners of her eyes crinkled, and she smiled, this time with a lightness, and he felt satisfied that the burden had been lifted. "Come to bed?" he implored tenderly, the muscles in his legs just now beginning to protest the length of time he'd been squatting. He stood slowly, not letting go of her hand, and she allowed him to pull her up with him. Tom smiled at her fondly, caressing his other hand down her face as his nimble fingers combed through her hair gently. She lost herself in the endless blue that she so loved. Counting her blessings again that she'd somehow ended up with him, and followed him as he led them upstairs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to share this Chapter, I actually wrote most of this scene when I hit Part 7 of New China. Figured I might post it as a one-shot down the road, but then I got hooked, and here we are. Almost 70,000 words later and finally hitting a moment I've had planned since the beginning. As always, I appreciate the feedback you've given. It's a pleasure chatting with some of you about the show, even though I'm 6 years late to the party and I so appreciate the warm welcome you've all given me! 
> 
> Warning, chapter is M.

**Saturday, March 26th, 2016—Mount Pleasant, South Carolina**

He looked out of the window curiously as they meandered further and further back into the marshes, the property lines getting larger until she pulled up at a gate. He would have missed it, even with a map.

She put the car in park and paused for a moment. This was it. The moment of truth. She looked over at him and nodded. They wordlessly got out and started pulling the chains off the distressed wood, a sign that maybe no one had been back here since it broke out. He helped her push the gate open, rains had caused silt to rise, and she was glad he'd come because there's no way she would have been able to force it open herself.

They hopped back in the car, and she drove slowly, knowing though it was mostly covered by grassy weeds, the quarter of a mile-long driveway that had led to their house. The gravel churned under the car's wheels. A satisfying sound that always reminded her of home. Of coming back from missions and the vast and exotic lands she'd seen. Couldn't believe it as it's towering structure loomed through tendrils of Spanish Moss; it didn't appear to have been looted or even touched for that matter.

Her mouth hung open in astonishment as she exited the car. Tom following her lead, his eyebrows rose as he took it in. Frankly, it was stunning. A two-story modern colonial lakehouse, clearly custom built. Clad in a mixture of white siding and custom millwork. Well proportioned with expansive windows adorned with powder blue shutters, a generous front porch anchored by towering wooden columns. A three-car garage set off to the right-wing of the house. It had to be at least 5,000 square feet, and it backed up onto the river with its own private dock. He had questions. Several of them, but they could wait.

"I can't believe it," she whispered, shaking her head slightly. However, her astonishment was short-lived when she noticed a big red X poking out from behind an overgrown palm. Her face fell. She motioned for Tom to look, and his expression quickly changed to mirror her own.

Suddenly she felt like she couldn't swallow, a chill had run down her spine. Did that mean... was he still…

"Why don't I go first, check it out," Tom offered, immediately stepping up and taking control. She nodded at him, unable to find words as the thought percolated relentlessly. The idea that her husband's corpse could be laying in their house still was an unthinkable thing. Yet, if no one had been here, that's exactly where it might be. The dread was almost too great. She could feel her stomach rolling and suspected the color had drained from her face.

Tom gave her a comforting nod and stepped forward, ascending the steps quickly and testing the door. It was still locked. He really didn't want to kick it down in front of her. It felt disrespectful. A small scoff drew his attention and he turned to see her shaking her head. Remembering the argument she'd had with Chris over the stupidity of leaving a key outside of a locked door when they'd moved.

"There's a key in the dirt of that planter," she explained, pointing to his right. He followed her instruction, only having to dig about an inch before he found metal. He pulled it out and cleaned it off on his jeans.

When he stepped in, he was greeted by a double-height foyer, a huge brass chandelier anchored in its center, and a large staircase that was slightly curved to the right. He couldn't quite suppress the way his eyebrows rose as he took it in. Through the foyer, a wide archway led directly to the living space. Floor to ceiling french windows framing the perfect view of the tributary, the varied herringbone patterns of the light oak floor gleaming in the expansive natural light that they cast. The ceilings had to be at least twelve feet high, if not more. It looked like the stuff Darien used to show him when they'd talked about renovating. All the very expensive and out of their budget stuff.

Apparently, Sasha hadn't told him she was rich.

He made quick work of checking the ground floor, finding nothing amiss. A little mess; it was clear her husband had been here quite a while judging by the supplies in the Garage and preserved goods in the kitchen. He happened upon a wedding picture, framed and set on a Grand Piano. His heart-clenching inexplicably as he looked. Observed the simple, clean-lined, no-frills backless dress she'd chosen. The way she laughed radiantly at the camera while her Husband gazed at her with enamor. He was tall. If Tom had to guess, 6ft 4, maybe 5. Slim but not weedy, athletic. Obviously took good care of himself, looked to be in his early to mid-40s. Clean cut with short brown hair a little peppered but not enough to be considered grey, like him. He was an attractive man, very cosmopolitan. The type of man that people likely found universally appealing. He moved on and checked the rest of the house. Wherever he'd died, it hadn't been here.

She was leaning against one of the wooden pillars when he appeared again **—** immediately straightened when he stepped through the door.

"All clear," he said, noticing the way she visibly exhaled and relaxed. When she made no further movement, he realized just how scared she was. Scared to come home, fearful of what it meant. He'd felt the same things when he'd first returned to Virginia. Wasn't ready for the collision of reality and the ghosts of memories he'd rather forget. For how painful it had been. To see all the small things that he took for granted, the things that meant nothing because he hadn't known they were ' _lasts'_. The last dirty bowl in the sink, the last packed lunch for their kids, the last time he'd taken his wife in their sheets.

He held his hand out to her; she hadn't even noticed how long she'd been standing there frozen; chewing on her lips with a furrowed brow. She looked down at it and then up at him. He was looking at her too, and all she could see was acceptance and love. She caught the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and took his hand. It was time for her to stop running from this.

It was surreal, stepping into the place she'd been so excited about – their newly built home; they'd barely lived in it for six months before she was sent to Asia. She'd spent more time aboard the James than in these walls. She squeezed his hand before letting go. She needed to explore on her own now that he'd helped her take the first step and he fully understood. Closed the large door behind them and waited patiently in the foyer.

She walked over to the light switch, testing it **—** power was out. Hardly surprising. They'd stopped seeing signs of occupancy about six miles back. It was harder to get supplies out here; you needed to be more self-sufficient, ran the risk of flooding if a hurricane rolled in. The air was stale, a little musty. The humidity of the South having seeped into the wood surfaces in her absence. She walked through the foyer into the living room, eyes drawn immediately to her piano. She smiled softly, pressed a key just to hear the sound of it. Still in tune.

Traced a finger through the dust, stopping to pick up a photo **—** her favorite from their wedding day. She sighed heavily, bringing her other hand up and holding it tightly. Realized now that her memories had faded to the point that she couldn't remember the sound of his voice… his smell. It felt like a completely different life. One that she'd dreamed. She put the picture down gently as Tom watched from the Foyer. Headed to her office.

Everything was just as she'd left it; her mail stacked neatly waiting for her return. She swallowed. Something so mundane now marked a timestamp of the day it had all stopped. Simply ceased coming because the number of dead was so great.

She went to the kitchen, taking in the sheer number of cans and preserved goods that were stacked on almost every surface. He'd tried to ride it out here then. She approached the island, opening the drawer where they kept their car keys and all the miscellaneous crap that usually got left out. She was a neat freak and wanted order. He loved her, so he did as she asked.

His keys were gone.

She pulled the drawer open further, and that's when she spotted it. A chill ran down her spine. It was a handwritten note:

_Sasha,_

_I have no idea if you'll ever make it back here. It's been three months since you were last able to contact me. I did as you said. I gathered supplies and managed to get my parents in time. They've been here with me since this started. I try every day to reach you on the channel you gave me, but I can't get through. I'm sure it's just bad communications._

_I know you're out there somewhere working on a way to get home, and I wish I could've been here when you finally make it. Dad's been exposed, we didn't find out in time. Mom's just started a fever. I know I'll be next. We're headed to their Cabin in Tennessee. When you come home, I don't want you to find us this way._

_Baby, I'm so sorry. Please know, being with you made me happier than I have ever been in my life. Marrying you was my greatest achievement. I'll be thinking of you when it ends, and know that given a choice I'd choose this again_ **—** _exactly as it is. Don't blame yourself for leaving because if you were here – you'd be dead too._

_I love you so much, and I'll see you on the other side._

_\- Chris x_

Her hands were shaking. She re-read it several times.

There it was.

The confirmation.

She'd _known_ this. She lived in reality and knew the chances of him surviving were slim to none. When she'd finally been able to check the existing registries, tried to make contact with him and turned up nothing? She'd accepted it quickly and kept moving on **—** not looking back. But having a timeline, having a concrete and definitive answer as to _how_ made it real. She put it down on the counter and sat in the stool slowly, elbow resting on the cold marble, hand grasping her jaw as she processed it. Hadn't even realized she was crying until she felt the wetness on her fingers.

She sniffed and closed her eyes tightly, a wave of sorrow overcoming her.

" _I don't want you to find us this way."_

He'd never given up on her and she'd convinced herself so quickly that there was no hope, cut herself off mentally and emotionally from him much earlier than he'd actually died in order to survive. He'd deserved better. Someone better than her. She felt guilty **—** it hurt. She'd almost given up, and it wasn't the thought of her husband that had kept her alive. She cringed as another wave of guilt hit her.

Tom found her that way, staring absently at the wall in the kitchen. She wordlessly handed him the note as he approached. She wasn't crying anymore, just processing, but he could tell she had been. Her cheeks were flushed, and the whites of her eyes distinctly red. He took the letter slowly and read it. Chris Cooper appeared to have been a good man. A thoughtful man that realized what he had, a man that loved her as he should unselfishly. Tom could only hope she was listening to his last words.

He put the letter down with great care and respect and came to stand beside her. Ran a hand over her head and leaned down to kiss her temple softly. He was about to let her go, but the arms snaking around his waist let him know she needed him to stay, so he moved closer and enveloped her in an embrace. Stroked her hair as she buried her face in his torso and he leaned against the island, cradling her.

_All Sasha could think was that he'd deserved more from her._

* * *

Tom watched as she lit another candle; they were staying for the night, camping out by the fireplace in the great room for the heat. Though Charleston was temperate compared to St. Louis in the early spring, the sun was setting, and there was a distinct chill in the house already.

She'd pulled the generous cushions from the plush sofas and set them down in a make-shift bed in front of the fire, draped the faux-fur throws over them. Grabbed a duvet from the linen closet, as well as the pillows from the guest room, and bought them down, along with some boxes and items she wanted to go through. Were it not for the circumstances, he'd consider it perfectly romantic. There was plenty of firewood stacked in the garage, they had food and fresh water they'd bought with them, and most importantly, the liquor cabinet was far from depleted. She smiled gratefully at him as he handed her a glass of bourbon, setting the bottle down on the coffee table behind her.

"Thank you," she said softly, taking a sip and enjoying the way it burned.

"So, do you want beans or roasted marshmallows for dinner?" he was casually leaning back on his arm while he watched her.

She chuckled. "Why do I feel like we're at summer camp?"

Tom made a comical expression, "This is the fanciest camp I've ever been to." A laugh this time and a smile that showed her teeth **—** all he really wanted.

"His parents owned a manufacturing company in Tennessee. He sat on the board, worked with the investors, did mergers, and acquisitions… you know, that kind of stuff," she explained, trailing off as she looked around the room, taking it all in. The fact that at some point in her life, this was considered normal. The million-plus show home, professionally decorated to the point of being featured in a local design magazine. "It _is_ pretty excessive," she joked in agreement, shaking her head slightly as she looked up at the custom molding work and reclaimed oak beams of the ceiling. Somewhat embarrassed by just how much money they'd spent making this place. How comparatively it was bad taste to live with this much luxury while others fought for scraps.

"Never pictured you becoming a millionaire," he quipped.

" _Multi_ -millionaire," she corrected quickly, raising her eyebrow, eyes teasing him.

He chuckled and took a sip of bourbon. "Forgive me. I should have known."

"If it makes you feel better, you did let me live on your three billion-dollar destroyer," she reminded him. Tom tipped his head, raising his glass slightly. Not the same, of course, but a noted gesture nonetheless. He was still a man with rooted values who'd lived a traditional life in which he provided for his wife. It was his job, amongst other things, he'd never be able to give Sasha the life she'd been living before, not that he was under any delusion that she wanted him to. Tom knew that, but he was still the product of Jed Chandler's teachings. His family was Christian, and his old man's words seemed to haunt him more and more as of late.

The mood shifted, and he saw her expression change. "I never needed any of this. We could have lived in a tent, and I would have been happy," she started, seemingly getting lost for a moment. "Just came from two different worlds," she decided upon, punctuating her statement with another sip of bourbon; enjoying the warm burn as the amber liquid flowed down.

This was the kind of life her mother would kill for. A cold and calculated woman who'd sucked her father dry in more ways than one through ruthless ambition. Theirs was the upper-middle-class family extended grossly beyond its means. Up to their eyeballs in debt, the latest and greatest in cars, clothes, and gadgets. The poorest on the street of affluent neighbors in the prized zip code. Perfectly turned out in public. A precious little girl, pretty as a button to be paraded around and cooed at. The kind of family that would fall to its knees in a stiff wind. Her father was a good man who'd fallen in love with the wrong woman, and who'd stayed for his daughter. But even she hadn't been enough to quell his misery, and he'd drunk himself to death by the time she turned twelve. Her mother's toxic fantasy life had finally collapsed. They lost everything, but in some ways, it was the beginning of real **—** miserable as it was.

Tom listened patiently, he knew of her family history, _vaguely_. It had taken him almost a year of careful coaxing and observation to gather the basics. Keeping clues tucked away. How she never went home during leave, never had a single visitor. Planned to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas alone. Didn't believe in trust or giving oneself emotionally to someone in that way, never entirely. The intensity of the drive that kept her running the same as the one that kept him chasing

_Intoxicating._

Sasha came back to the present and smiled at him. "Why don't we go with marshmallows," brightening the tone.

"Whatever the lady wants," he answered, getting up to grab them and some skewers.

* * *

"This was our honeymoon," she said, passing him the photobook she'd had printed. Tom looked through them, some kind of tropical vacation, looked like Bora Bora if he had to guess. She looked beautiful, carefree, _happy_. Something twisted in his chest. Something that felt a little like jealousy, but not necessarily of Chris. More of the fact that it hadn't been _their_ honeymoon. That she'd turned him down. He pushed it away **—** he had her now, and that had to be enough.

"You look happy," he offered.

Sasha pondered for a moment. "I was," the expression wistful, nostalgic, reaching out and taking the book back when he was done. "But I'm happy now too **—** with you," she assured him, not missing the something in his eyes that seemed troubled. Sasha grabbed another box, the one she really wanted to show him. Tom didn't miss the care she took with it, more so than any of the others. Shifted closer so he could get a better look as she removed the lid gently. His heart fell.

"You still have that?" came his breathy question.

It didn't look like much to anyone on the outside, just a simple birthday card **—** but it was the moment that held so much weight. The heartfelt love letter he'd put in its contents. The one last desperate attempt to keep her. The one he'd given her on her 23rd birthday after she'd broken his heart three and half weeks prior. The last day he'd seen her. She hadn't even told him she was leaving. 

"How could I not keep it?" her brows furrowed with affection and sincerity. "I read it almost every day for a month after I left, and every birthday since," she admitted shaking her head sadly.

"Why didn't you just come back?" he couldn't help it. It was a question that had been simmering in his psyche for sixteen years; burning more recently than not.

"We didn't work Tom... You _know that,_ and you moved on, as you should have. You know I never changed my mind about kids. I get the feeling you thought I'd just grow out of it. Hit my late twenties and suddenly get broody." The hollow cheek suck and avoidance of her eyes let her know she'd hit a spot. He couldn't say he hadn't wondered about it before they'd reconnected. Now? It was no question at all. She'd had her tubes tied at 35. Had finally managed to convince a Doctor that she wasn't going to just lose her mind and suddenly crave babies despite spending her entire life sure that she wasn't interested in that. It made her angry that despite everything, she was still looked at like a baby-making machine.

"But you're so great with Sam and Ashley? They love you, more than me most of the time," he grumbled, thinking out loud. Having the conversation that she'd never really granted him before.

"It's not that I hate kids, especially older ones. But I was never there drowning in diapers and formula. Never had to give anything up to enjoy them, and could hand em back anytime. You and Darien did all of the hard stuff, Tom. Now I get to be the good cop and the friend. It's not the same," she countered. Tom dropped his head, he understood, and she was right, of course.

It just hurt. _Still._

Prior to the Red Flu, that had been one of the worst days of his life. He'd be lying if he said it hadn't completely obliterated his ego, made him feel small and unworthy that he'd poured his heart out, and by the time he'd returned from thanksgiving at his parents, she'd gone. Changed her phone number and said nothing else.

Sasha moved the box away. She hadn't meant to open old wounds; rather, she was trying to show him how much he'd meant to her despite the way she'd acted. Though, as she considered it now, it probably wasn't the best way to communicate it. She scooted closer and kissed him softly, hand on his neck. Silencing his melancholy and drawing him back to the present. No use dwelling on more ghosts. He relaxed and pulled her with him. Settled back against the cushions with her head resting on his chest. She draped her arms around him and sighed, enjoying the feeling of home his scent gave her.

"Do you remember that road trip?" she asked after a time, he could hear the smile in her voice. Couldn't help the wide grin that spread over his face. How could he possibly forget?

"The one where I had to get ice at three in the morning cause we had too much sex?" the melody of his voice fond.

She shook her head slightly, smiling widely at the memory. Her shoulders shook with laughter, "I was so sore." His hand rubbed lazy circles over her arm. "We were crazy," she uttered wistfully. Remembering times long gone **—** when the world had been simple and her spirit free. How they'd soared together in stolen time inhibitions gone.

Tom couldn't help those old doubts from knocking again, the ones that told him he knew Sasha, and she was not one to be tied down. To be stuck in one place for too long. Bound by domestic obligations; kids, homework, emotional baggage. He was damaged goods at this point and he knew it. Though he was loathe to admit it, he was scared she'd wake up one day and realize she didn't want this life. Didn't want him, and he wouldn't really be able to blame her for that. He knew the world was different now, but still. This wasn't what any of them had imagined. He'd planned to grow old with Darien. They'd travel once the kids moved on, enjoy their golden years together, and he'd get to be a grandfather one day. Be able to experience the things he'd missed by being on missions. His job would be to love and support his family and the Navy the distant stories he told them as they grew.

And Sasha? She wasn't much for planning the future. She'd fallen for Chris and his quiet but confident way. He was handsome, smart, and loyal and he didn't want children. He was a go with the flow kind of man, who only sought control in the board room. It had worked for her. It was easy and comforting. Fun. He'd actually sparked a fondness within her when they met in an airport lounge, discovered they were on the same lonely long haul flight back from Asia. She a mission, though she'd lied about it, and he returning from an investor meeting.

Sasha sensed the shift in his mood, and her face fell. She propped herself up so she could see him. He was deep in brooding. "What is it?" she asked quietly. He looked up at her, masking his features and giving her a tender look instead.

"Just thinking," he bought a hand up to touch her cheek. "It's nothing," he told her.

She studied him for a long moment. A little sad that he didn't open up, but understanding nonetheless. It was hard to let down those walls for people like them, so used to being emotionally detached and hidden. Used to covering their vulnerabilities. The fact that she barely shared any herself meant she couldn't reasonably expect emotional transparency from him. Not when she wouldn't even tell him about her dreams. Sasha gave him a micro-smile before settling herself on his chest again, listening to the logs crackle and break in the fire.

"What do you want to do with it?" he inquired quietly after a time.

"I'm not sure. Seems a shame to waste it. Maybe we could keep it? Use it as a vacation house?" she suggested, and his fears eased slightly. _We_. Plans for the future. Plans that included him and the kids.

"That would be nice, bring a couple generators, wouldn't take much to get it cleaned up. It's in great condition," he replied.

She smiled. "I'd like that. You think the kids would like it?"

"Are you kidding me? They'd love it. We could fish out on the dock, maybe even swim in the summer. And if we got that car running?"

She smiled again against his shirt. "You saw that, huh?" referring to the sports car in the garage.

"Yeah, I saw it. Yours or his?"

"Mine," she replied nonchalantly.

He smirked. "Always did have a lead foot."

"But got out of every ticket," she replied in a sing-song voice. The way he chuckled reverberated through his chest directly into her ear where it rested. 

"I wonder why," he remarked rhetorically.

Sasha bit her lip slightly, pushed herself up on her elbows, and wiggled higher, so they were face to face. His eyes caressed her lazily, the smooth expanse of her skin, her eyebrows, the slope of her nose where it came to a delicate point. The pink dusting of her lips. For being 39, she was still flawless, barely a line to be found. He bought his hand up and tucked her hair behind her right ear. Fingers lingering with a feather-light touch. Gentle. Soft as he trailed the pad of his thumb down her cheek and then slowly to her bottom lip. Blowing fresh oxygen on the fire that simmered within her every time he was near.

She sucked in a breath and captured his mouth, her tongue tangling with his in a branding kiss. His hands came up to her jaw, holding her to him. Delicate cool fingers under the hem of his shirt, touching the muscle, sending jolts of desire to his groin. Months of PT and strength training had put him back in remarkably great shape. He shifted their weight, rolling them slightly so she was pressed beneath him. Trailed kisses down her neck to her collarbone and that spot that she loved. She gasped softly, threading her fingers through his hair. His hand trailed the side of her thigh to her waistband and then up and under her shirt. Skirted the sensitive skin at her ribs earning a squirm and a giggle. She pulled at his shirt, a silent request for him to take it off, and he complied. Throwing it quickly to the side. She sat up and kissed his bare chest, his skin so warm against her swollen lips. Her hands fumbled his belt buckle, quickly undoing it. He twitched.

"You sure?" he breathed. Her mouth moved down, open hot breath against his abs as she kissed there; his hands cradled the back of her head, fingers buried in the soft silk of her hair. The hair he touched at every possible opportunity, that he'd been fascinated with from the day they'd first met. "It's just a house," she breathed. It was a house with ghosts that she'd barely lived in, a house that had been new to them both, that hadn't quite morphed into a home yet. Most of her cherished memories with Chris belonged to the condo she'd sold. Long since lost.

Sasha pulled the button of his pants open and the zipper down deftly. Could see he was already rock hard, never needed any help with that. Just being near her was enough. Her core clenched, she wanted him, and she wanted him now. She pulled her sweater off and made quick work of her bra. He took the hint. Removing the rest of his clothes as she did hers.

Paused when he turned back toward her, taking a moment to admire how magnificent she was, the fire casting a warm glow over the room. Couldn't quite believe how lucky he was that she was his again, mystified that she'd forgiven him for leaving. For his mistakes in Greece, still shocked that she was willing to be with him. That she even wanted him. Sasha titled her head to the side and shimmied ever so slightly, earning a warm smile. Reached out her hand to pull him closer again, which he willingly obliged before coming to settle on his knees – face to face, body to body. She ran her hands up the sides of his thighs, fingers brushing over the neatly heeled scar below his hip. Captured his lips hungrily again, pushing him down into a sitting position as he swung his legs out from under him, and she settled herself in his lap. Both shuddering as her slick core brushed against his shaft, eliciting a throb and a hungry sigh.

"You're so wet," he murmured huskily against her lips. Sasha shivered, done with the teasing, and drew herself up, easily angling him home. She moaned with relief as she slid over him, the sound making him twitch, squeezed his eyes closed as he savored the way she fit. No matter how many times they did this, it took his breath away. The amount of connection he felt; how the world filtered down into this one perfect act. How he could lose himself entirely in her **—** give her everything he had, all that he was. She rocked her hips slowly while he was buried to the hilt, unprepared for just how good the pressure felt. He held her body against him, arms around her back and head in the crook of her neck while she clung to him.

Kissed hot wet trails over her skin as she pleasured herself on him languidly. Savoring every hitch in her breath, every goosebump on her skin, every gasp, and slight loss of control she would give. The room filled with the sound of the fire and slick skin. She drew herself further back, moving from rocking to pull him out before taking him again and his hands flew to her hips, the action eliciting a hiss from him. A half whimper. "You feel so good," she uttered, sending a jolt down his spine. He couldn't help it; he guided her hips, changing the rhythm and angle again, driving up into her as she matched his pace. Knew he'd hit the spot by the way her fingers dug into his skin, the slick of fluid he felt, and the fluttering of her around him. She threw her head back, knowing he'd just taken her to the point of no return. Those beautiful, torturous ten to fifteen seconds where her release built so overwhelming, became so needed that it almost hurt. She felt like she was about to tear apart in the most tantalizing and indescribable way.

She wanted to be as close to him as possible when she fell. She tried to fight it, so it could last longer, not ready to be done. He could sense her holding out, holding back, so he pulled her to him tightly, buried a hand in her hair, and spoke into her ear. "Let go," he told her **—** she moaned low the lighting bolt of desire that struck her when he spoke too great; sent her barreling over the edge, her entire body tensing and pulsating with pleasure as she came. Hard. He thrust into her, two, three more times before letting himself follow her, heart swelling with every pulse.

They settled together on the cushions, and he made sure she was wrapped securely in one of the blankets; knew it wouldn't take long for her to get cold. She smiled and kissed him sweetly for his attention and care while they lay together in silence. Enjoying the sound of the fire and the intimacy of being secure in each other's arms. His nimble fingers stroking her face as their eyes stayed connected.

Every so often, they had moments.

Perfect ones.

Moments where everything else stopped. Moments, where it felt like time, space, and reality, didn't exist. Where the love she felt for him burned so brightly she could feel it burst in her chest. Like a wave as it hit, overwhelming at first, but strangely comforting when it drew you back home. Moments where she was honestly so happy it stole her breath.

It was beautiful.

This was one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Monday, April 4th, 2016** **—** **White House, St. Louis, Missouri**

They were camped in her office, theirs the only glow in the lonely corridor. Tom had kicked off his shoes and was resting his sock-clad feet on her desk leaned back in the chair with a pile of discarded files beside him. Eyes scanning relentlessly through page, after page, after page of bullshit. Sasha wasn't fairing much better; she'd long since removed her stuffy blazer. Un-buttoned the top three fastenings of her shirt. Feet also bare below the desk.

"What about Pensacola?"

Sasha shook her head, "Wiped out by a Hurricane, damaged most all the reaming jets at Tyndall. And the guy that was working on the fix died three weeks ago from a heart attack. Bristol Myers hasn't manufactured Warfarin for three years and we're finally running out." Came the disparaging reply, her tone perfectly punctuating the extreme predicament they were all in.

He inhaled dramatically. Frustrations getting the best of him and snapped the file shut, tossing it haphazardly to lay with the others he'd done the exact same to. Sasha closed her own, head shaking from side to side in disbelief.

"It can't be done, Tom," she replied, admitting defeat. "Every little piece needs something that we just can't find. We don't have enough people; we don't have the resources." Her tone was discouraged as she gestured with her hands to illustrate her point. Raised her eyebrows at him to warn him that what she was about to say, wouldn't make him happy.

"We can't fix this from here. We need agreements, and intel, _yesterday_. And what we have now? Isn't going to cut it. I'm talking ground teams, long-term deployments working foreign states from the ground up. Getting us contacts, resources, players. We need all of it, and I can't do that sitting here shuffling papers in an office and combing social media to find it." She paused and chewed on her lip slightly, waiting for the reaction he wanted to give. Could see the heaviness settling in his eyes because he knew she was right. Though it didn't make it any less difficult to admit.

"So you wanna go back out there?" he uttered quietly.

"I don't want. I think it's what I need to do," she corrected, "Tom, I love you and the kids, I'm happy, but this is bigger than that. You've seen the files; we lost another _two-hundred thousand_ people in this famine. People with skills that we can barely replace. Oliver's about to make fifteen the legal age of adulthood. That's Ashley in eight months!" The stormy glare she received let her know she'd made her point. He couldn't imagine his daughter being able to legally enlist. Being thrust out into this cruel world to fight for survival when he was supposed to do that for her. But that was the reality of the situation humanity faced itself with. The days of child workers, slaving away in coal mines marched ever closer as they scrambled to solve their fuel and resource shortages.

"I can't, in good conscience walk away from this." A breathy confession that hung heavy and thick in the air between them. His jaw clenched.

"And you want me on board with this?"

She hadn't expected him to jump for joy, of course. But the amount of thinly veiled disdain laced in his tone gave her pause, made her recoil. Not used to him speaking to her this way. She recovered quickly, "I didn't expect you'd be thrilled; but I think given the circumstances that you of all people could understand?"

He looked away, appropriately admonished though unable to swallow his pride and apologize. He worked his jaw, brooding the way he did when he was being stubborn and didn't want to give.

She continued, "I wouldn't go all the time. I can muster a team and lay the groundwork from here; get us the base intel—but you and I both know we need Panama under control again. We need that canal." His eyes flickered back to hers, signaling that he was at least listening to her though he wasn't happy.

"If Oliver will give me Vulture Team, I can be in and out in three months—overthrow the rebels while the US secures a diplomat willing to sign our trade agreement. We offer them support in toppling the regime, give them an exclusive fuel agreement in the gulf. Make it a true joint effort, their canal, our offshore oil stations, share infrastructure and manpower… " she trailed off at the visceral reaction he had.

" _Three months?_ You wanna go treck in the Jungle and take down warlords where we have no way of providing meaningful support or back up, let alone extraction with a team of _four_ guns?"

She pulled a face because this was like the pot lecturing the kettle. "Five, actually. I'd need to recruit someone, and yes Tom. I think I can get it done. I singlehandedly managed to get in with Peng. Apparently well enough for him to overlook the fact I was smuggling cure – you don't think I know how to run a successful op with no support and terrible odds? I made it through _Asia_. And you have no idea what that took," she quipped back darkly, honestly offended that he was questioning her abilities in that regard.

It gave him pause—the part about Asia percolating in his mind like an alarm bell. She was right, he didn't know about Asia, because she refused to talk about it. "I'm not questioning your skills, Sasha. I'm trying to tell you it's too big of a risk," he implored, his tone more even and controlled.

"Why?" she asked defiantly, and he turned his head to the side. A warning not to go there.

" _You know why,"_ he ground out.

"Tom, this is the job. You know that better than anyone. You've made the same choices before because it was the right thing to do. I don't see how this is any different than that."

_Checkmate._

He looked her up and down quickly, much as he had on the James when she'd effectively ended his rampage about bombing Peng by tactfully reminding him of the number of innocent civilians he'd kill in the crossfire. Stopped him right in his tracks, much to his embarrassment.

Sasha shook her head in exasperation—this was everything she knew would happen. She knew he couldn't let it go, the control. This was part of why she'd walked away before. To save them both from the slow, agonizing death of a relationship sunk before it sailed because they didn't work. No matter how much they desperately loved each other. Love had never been the issue—or rather it was the sole issue. Some days she couldn't quite decide. She could feel the disillusion washing over her in waves, who the hell had they been kidding? How the hell had she thought they'd just walk away and be done with the missions once they'd found the seeds.

"You know this is exactly why I couldn't marry you? Even if we didn't have kids, I knew you'd never be able to accept that you're not the only one who gets to put themselves in danger," she snapped.

Sasha regretted the low blow the moment she'd let it slip past her lips. She'd hurt him badly with that comment, that much she could tell. The immediate sadness in his eyes crippling her. The repugnant shame hit her full force and the sting left her stance, her expression immediately imploring him to understand that she hadn't meant to be so cruel.

"It's late, the kids need dinner. I'm gonna head home." A quiet deflection.

" _Tom"_

The pause was pregnant as they simply looked at each other. As she struggled to find the words that might undo what she'd just done. Not quite sure how a perfectly normal evening had so quickly descended into this. How they'd been perfectly happy, moving forward and figuring things out, and with one conversation it felt like they were back at ground zero again. Back on the ship, where he believed he'd lost her for good. Tom dropped his gaze and looked at the floor, slipped his shoes on easily, and grabbed his coat and briefcase.

"I'll see you at home."

He didn't turn back to look at her. As soon as the door closed, Sasha let out the breath she'd been holding, blinking rapidly because she felt tears. Put her elbows on the desk and put her head in her hands trying to quell the stress. He hadn't looked back, nor had he told her to be safe.

* * *

They'd eaten by the time she slipped through the door. They were sitting on the sofa together watching re-runs of a movie on the only broadcasting station that wasn't about news, Both kids were curled up on each side of Tom. Sasha set her things down and approached quietly, trying not to disturb them. Sam poked his head over the top of the couch and smiled at her.

"Hey Sasha," he said brightly, and it sent a knock to her heart because he was always happy to see her. Ashely politely looked over and waved too, "Hi," she said quietly, before going back to the movie. Not missing the fact that her Dad hadn't turned around.

"Hey guys," Sasha responded her voice a little less bright than it usually was towards them. She hoped they wouldn't notice.

"Your dinner's in the microwave," Tom said quietly, attention still fixed on the screen.

"Thanks," she mumbled back, moving to re-heat it. Grateful for the distraction at least, for the thirty minutes she could waste eating it before awkwardly trying to decide how to fill the rest of her night. Mindful that the last thing she wanted was the kids to pick up on the tension between them. She pulled some papers from her briefcase—pretended she was sitting alone because she just had too much work to complete. Ate quietly at the Island, back turned on the living room.

After a time, Ashley came over and refilled her glass of water, and sat down next to her. "Hey," Sasha greeted her in a hushed tone.

"Did something happen at work today?" Ashley asked, not quite hiding the fact that she was reading the files that were open on the counter.

Sasha went slightly stiff. "Just a lot of stress. There's a lot of stuff that needs doing, and none of it's easy." Came the reply. A good half-truth, even if she did say so herself.

"Dad seems upset," she pushed, which caused Sasha's gut to twist uncomfortably.

Sasha sighed, not sure how to handle the not-so-subtle inquiries. "I know… just… some not great stuff happened today. Think he just needs a bit of space, but he'll be okay." Ashley seemed to consider it, and to her relief, didn't ask for more details. "What about you? How was school?" effectively changing the topic. Ash shrugged—about as much of a response as you'd expect from a teenaged girl full of angst and hormones.

"It was alright, I guess. Our principal said that President Oliver is changing the school calendar—they're going to start teaching vocational courses or something. And we're staying most of the summer to catch-up." Sasha nodded; she knew of the new order of course—they needed it. Needed kids to learn valuable skills, fast. Trade skills. Gone were the days of studying academia unless it provided direct relevance. She could only hope that someday soon, this wouldn't be necessary, but right now more than anything, they needed a generation of workers to replace those lost to the pandemic and subsequent events.

"Do you really think he'll make being an adult fifteen?" Ashley continued, sounding entirely too thrilled by the idea. Kids always wanted to grow up too fast—irony was now they actually needed them to.

"Unfortunately, yes," Sasha answered honestly. Ash looked somewhat offended. "Listen, I'm not saying you're not mature for your age, I just remember being fifteen. Thinking I had it all figured out, and it couldn't have been further from the truth. This is a different world Ash, you know that..." Sasha trailed off, "It's hard to let go of what was normal. We all just want the best for you—want you to have choices, be able to make mistakes. Have fun. Not have to worry about life until you hit your mid-twenties and realize your apartment's knee-deep in take-out." Satisfied that she'd smoothed the comment over by the smirk Ashley gave her. Sasha returned it and nudged her shoulder slightly with her own.

"Go finish your movie, I can hear your Dad listening from here." Ashely smirked in response and went back over to the sofa.

Despite himself, Tom couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. He had indeed been eavesdropping. There could be no doubt that Sasha knew him. Intimately. Inside and out. That's what made it so goddamn difficult for him. The thought of losing her… really losing her. Not the kind where she was alive and well, just not in his life. An acceptable place, as painful in its longing and regret as it may be.

_No._

It was the thought of getting used to her being there. Of loving her completely with reckless abandon, of coming home to a house full of her things, the scent of her lingering on his pillow and her being gone. Leaving him behind with the memories and her ghost. It was petrifying. It would be like losing Darien all over again. There had always been two places within his heart, the part that Sasha had occupied, made smaller over time, and the part where his love for Darien had grown.

It's why Mike swore to him one night on the upper deck that he'd never love again after Christine. After losing his kids. It just hurt too much. Better to be alone for the rest of his life than to give someone else the power to destroy him like that. Once was agonizing enough. Tom had been in agreeance; content to spend the rest of his life romantically detached. To count his blessings and enjoy the fact that he'd been spared his kids. Another part of his decision to let Rachel go. A decision that had quickly been re-enforced by her untimely death – that's just what happened in this reality. People died, for no good reason at all and you couldn't control it.

What he hadn't planned on? Was her being alive. _Sasha_. And he'd realized all too quickly, that this idea of him not loving her anymore? It was completely false. The idea that he'd somehow be able to control feelings that had never really left, proven ridiculous. His illusion had quickly crumbled. And so, he'd lived in the limbo ever since. Tried to walk away from it, ran halfway across the world to escape it, fulfilled desires of his flesh with empty women whom he'd never love, and realized, once again, that when it came to her—he was weak.

She was the bullet lodged in his chest that couldn't be operated on.

That would never be gone.

The one that had an equal chance of killing him if it shifted, or co-existing with him in peace until he died a natural death.

Of course, the latter sounded preferable; but such was the case with them. She'd always hovered somewhere in between.

The limbo.

And it cut him to his core.

* * *

It was late by the time he came upstairs. She'd excused herself, said she had a lot of work left to do, and retreated to the sanctuary of their bedroom. Given him the space he needed. In their youth, they'd fight viciously, both too stubborn to realize they were doing more harm than good by trying to win. She knew every button and stomped on them all. Descended into impassioned yelling matches almost every time. Smarter people got scared when he flew into rage—she was self-destructive enough to jump in for the ride. Secure in the knowledge that no matter how heated it was, he'd never lay a hand on her. Now they both knew it was more productive to calm down and give a chance for rational to chime in. Lessons that came with age and perspective.

Sasha was propped up in the bed, reading yet more reports, her version of a distraction when he entered. Tom noticed she'd taken a shower and was already wearing the shirt of his she preferred. Hair freshly washed and thrown into a messy bun. She straightened when she saw him, hated the fact that he was guarded, and she'd made it that way.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did," she tried. Unsure if it helped because his body language wasn't giving much away. He remained stoic, reminded her so fully of the way he ran his ship that it unnerved her. Could feel her cheeks heating up, if there's one thing he knew she hated—it was the silent treatment.

"Probably not," he replied, before adding, "but it's still the truth," a comment that earned a wince from her because he wasn't going to let her take it back.

"It's no one's fault Tom, that's what makes this so hard. You think I don't get scared too? Every time you go out there? Did you forget that less than six months ago, I was sat by your bedside, with you in a coma? Do you know how long I watched through my scope as you bled out? I was _terrified_!" she cried passionately.

Finally earning a rise out of him, he pushed away from the door coming closer to the foot of the bed, eyes ablaze as he responded, "That's exactly why I won't go back! I have to make sure I'm here for the kids and for you. I can't do that to you again!"

"But I'm not done!" a little louder than she'd intended. He drew back again slightly, sucked his cheeks in. "You might be ready to make that choice, to walk away from the mission—but I'm not! And you and I both know nothing would keep you here if you felt you had a mission to complete, regardless of what you might want!"

Tom squeezed his eyes closed and hung his head slightly. This was nothing he didn't already know. He was being stubborn, pig-headed, and he couldn't seem to let it go. Just dug his feet in deeper to keep fighting a losing battle. "I know Sasha. That's what I can't stand," he said between teeth. "I don't know how to be what you want!" his eyes pained his tone vehement, "I don't know how to sit here on the sidelines while you risk your life!"

"You did it—" she started but he cut her off quickly.

"Don't say I did it when you took the White House. I still had you on coms, Sasha, I was still there, in the fight. I made the play. I called the shots. I calculated the risks," he ranted. _Control._

"Actually, I was going to say you managed it in Greece," said sarcastically.

Tom's nostrils flared and he worked hard to suppress the fire she'd just ignited. "Anything else you'd like to throw in my face tonight?" he snapped.

Sasha scoffed. "Nope. Just trying to understand." Another snarky retort, punctuated by raised eyebrows and an attitude-laden head shake. "I almost got my head blown off three times while you were gone," she said definitely, almost proud. He looked at her sharply, a flicker of shock registering on his face before he reined it in, settling for a troubled expression instead. "You think it would have hurt less because you left? If you'd come back and found out I was dead? Somehow it wouldn't have been as bad because you'd moved on?" she asked darkly.

The look he gave her was thunderous, and if she didn't know better, she'd be scared. "What kind of question is that?" his voice low and laced in such a way that let her know she was about to push him over the edge.

"An honest one," she said defiantly, inclining her head to communicate she wouldn't back down. Not this time. "Point is, it would've happened whether you were there or not." Tom worked his jaw, she was right. _Always right_. It was the most infuriating thing about her.

Sasha softened slightly. "I get it, Tom, I really do. But we _have_ to figure this out." The fatigue settling itself heavily upon her shoulders. "We've already wasted so much time playing this game. Running away from each other because we're scared, or because the timing isn't right. Because we can't have everything we want. I left. You left. You got married. I got married, and still, the whole fucking time _I loved you."_ Her voice caught on the last words, becoming tight with emotion. "Yeah, I managed to go months, sometimes a year without thinking of you. But the second something reminded me? A smell, a song, a place, my birthday–It was still there. _All of it._ I wanted _you_ , Tom. I have wanted you the whole time!" she struggled out, eyes filled with moisture as she admitted the truth. Made herself vulnerable to how badly she'd loved him, remembering the longing that had come in the past every time it happened. How those perfect moments started playing like a reel in her head, how clearly, she had still been able to remember him. The sound of his voice. The melody of his laugh. The way he smiled—cheeks dimpled. And always, _always_ his goddamned eyes.

It struck him deeply. Pulled at his heart. Chased away the anger, and pride. Replaced it with what he knew to be true. He'd love her until the day he died, no matter what she did or whether he was beside her or not. He could fight all he wanted, try to pretend it wasn't that deep—it wouldn't make it better. It wouldn't make it hurt less. There was no undoing it this time, he'd tried that in Greece.

"I can't have a life with you and then lose you, Sash," he breathed, so quietly she almost hadn't heard it. " _I can't_ ," he repeated, eyes wincing slightly. Her brows formed a sympathetic expression and she shuffled forward on her knees until she could reach him. Placed her cool hands on either side of his neck holding his gaze intensely.

"You won't," she said confidently. "I promise you. Everything I do, every risk I take, every decision I make out in the field - I'll make sure I'm coming home to you first," she implored. He studied her face, trying to draw comfort from her words, trying to quell the gnawing hollowness that threatened to drown him. Tom exhaled and caved. Drew her to him by guiding her body by the back of her head, his lips resting against her forehead as he held her tightly. Felt her relax, the tension leaving her limbs as she bought her hands down and wrapped her arms around his back, hands holding the muscle as it stretched.

"I don't want to choose," he confessed, the words hanging heavily between them. The implication clear. He didn't want to be torn between being there for his kids or chasing after her should something go wrong. Because he knew himself well enough to know if there was something he could do, he'd do it. Wouldn't be able to live with himself if she died. Couldn't live with the thought that his chasing her could kill him and orphan his kids either. Tom didn't want to be in a position like that again.

_Russian Roulette._

He was about to start playing again, only this time she was pulling the trigger too.

"I don't want you to, Tom. Not asking either." She drew back to make eye contact with him, a hesitant frown on her face.

" _Sasha,_ " he warned.

"I'm serious. I'm not expecting you to come to the rescue if it goes wrong and we need exfil. I don't want you to, I know you need to be here for Ashley and Sam, and you can't risk it," she told him.

He narrowed his eyes at her, pained. "You can't honestly believe I could just sit here and do nothing." He shook his head slightly, almost disappointed that she just didn't get it. Didn't get that she was it for him now. No matter how many times he told her loved her, how many times he tried to show it. She didn't quite understand what that meant for him. She thought he could still choose to leave her behind, to walk away.

Maybe at the core of it, was the fact that she'd never choose him over the Navy, and he'd been willing to do that from the moment he'd fallen in love with her. It hurt, and it always had. But that's who she was, and he wouldn't change her. Loved her in spite of it.

This was just one of those reminders.

Her expression was pained because she couldn't argue. She knew it was just the ugly truth laid bare. Their ugly warts resurfacing. He backed away and she felt the cold wash over her immediately.

"I need to take a shower."

Her eyes followed him as he left, watched as he closed the door to the bathroom quietly. Shutting her out. Stared after it while she worked her jaw for a good five minutes trying to figure out how to repair the damage that had been done.


	5. Chapter 5

**Tuesday, April 26th, 2016—White House, St. Louis Missouri**

Sasha was running late—badly. Had slept through her alarm, exhaustion finally getting the best of her. She was mildly pissed that Tom hadn't woken her. Tom knew she preferred to get to the office by 0730, he usually by 0815 after dropping the kids at school, unless his schedule conflicted. But she also knew he believed she didn't get enough sleep. And so, he'd made the conscious choice to leave her be; would cover for her if he had to until she showed up. It was clear her body was trying to tell her something, and she wasn't listening.

It was nearly ten by the time she got there; had so much to do that mildly pissed had turned into full irritability, and she fully intended to confront him later. For now, she needed to get back to work. President Oliver had granted her Vulture Team, and she'd been given a Special Forces Green Beret to take Burks position. Nathan James couldn't afford to lose all of them. Currently, she had managed to get civilian assets in town to feed her information on local non-profit groups. Posed as a former combat medic, she'd started emailing those groups to find an insertion point. Uncovered intel about the rebels' activities naturally by tracing the villages they were supporting and had mapped the patterns over a period of weeks. They now had a plausible idea of the Rebels' base camp as well as the name of their leader.

That's where they would start. A local Christian based organization was set up about 20 clicks south of the suspected target whose mission was to provide aid and medical care to the locals. She, along with Wolf, Green, Azima, and Brown, were scheduled to join the camp on the 4th. Now they needed to set up weapons supplies to stash strategically through the jungle. Undetected. They were also cramming material to make sure their medical knowledge held up to snuff.

She stopped in her tracks when she opened the door to her office. There was a bouquet of white roses on her desk.

She blinked.

Hovered in the threshold for a moment, the internal rampage effectively snuffed out. She closed the door and set her things in the armchair, coming to inspect them. Her thin fingers touched the soft petals, they looked freshly cut, and they clearly hadn't come from a florist. Those didn't exist anymore.

He'd stuck a post-it to the stems, and she read it.

_These took me three weeks to find. Happy anniversary – Tom_

All of a sudden, she was blinking back tears, her lip quivering. She sat down in the chair and got a hold of herself quickly, almost embarrassed by the fact that some flowers from him could reduce her so quickly. It was the baggage behind it that caught up with her. April 26th. The day they'd first kissed, nineteen years ago. She hadn't even remembered, so wrapped up in the mission that it had slipped her mind—but he had. Things had been strained. He was distant; she not much better. Too stubborn and unsure of how to keep moving forward. It felt like they were going in big elaborate circles, slave to one of the two Achilles heels in their relationship. Kids and careers.

Until their fight, she hadn't quite thought about the complexity of it. She'd believed it simple: he had the kids he'd wanted, she didn't, the perfect compromise. So now it would work, right? But it wasn't just that she didn't have kids; she also had nothing to hold her back. No responsibilities. No one whose life she was morally and legally responsible for. She had Tom, and though he understood better than anyone that the mission came first, he did have responsibilities. She hadn't really considered the predicament he'd be in emotionally with that. Sometimes he was so good at pretending she forgot how deeply he carried guilt. How surely, he felt responsible for her _and_ his kids because of his love. How he'd turned away from his wife and children, and though it was the right thing to do – it had killed him. How they'd been used as a weapon against him, and his Father killed _because_ of his mission. And she had to ask herself if the shoe were on the other foot, what would she do? At what point was enough, enough? How many more lives? How much more loss? What would it take?

She got up and walked purposefully to his office. The door was ajar, and he was making notes when she entered, the abruptness grasping his attention. He paused, pen hovering over paper as his head snapped up, lips slightly parted and eyebrows slanted in question.

Sasha hovered for a few seconds before decisively approaching him. Tom stilled in apprehension. He felt her hands grasp his face as she firmly placed her lips over his before pulling them away just as sharply.

"I love you," she spoke forcefully, her hands still holding his head, face just inches from his. "After this mission, if you ask me to stay, then I will. I mean it. I will choose you," She told him with conviction.

To say he was shocked would be a gross understatement. His expression immediately changed, and his eyes raced from side to side as he searched hers. "I accepted the position of CNO this morning." He breathed.

_Ditto._

Her eyebrows rose as high as they could go. "You didn't have to do that," she stammered, trying to collect her thoughts; he hadn't even told her he was still considering it, thought his mind had been made up about retiring fully after he helped her straighten out the harder logistics. Didn't even think him returning to what essentially was the head of the Navy, almost Military at this point was an option. It was entirely out of left field. His eyes caressed her face.

"No. I didn't. But I chose to," he said, voice low. Her brows furrowed in confusion.

She exhaled, "Why?"

"Let's just say I got some perspective." His head nodded slightly to the left. She shot him a look that told him she still didn't understand. "Ashely," he answered. Sasha raised her head slightly, and her lips parted. "She reminded me of some things that I'd forgotten… and, you were right." He paused, his eyes becoming tender as he spoke to her. "Just because I'm there in the house, doesn't mean I'm giving them a future. Not when it's like this."

It was like she could breathe again. Like the wind had finally flown their stalled sails. Couldn't help the astonished and hopeful smile that was spreading across her lips, she saw the same spark in his eyes as she had in Hong Kong when he'd had a dick measuring contest across the table with Peng. When he'd sauntered over to them on the tarmac and told her to get him to Vietnam. It was the same rushing adoration she'd felt when he'd given his speech to Meylan. The same when he'd taken the oath back in Greece. The same wonder she'd held at the sheer grace of his leadership in Asia. When everyone in the room had given up hope, their government disbanded, their loyalty and sacrifice cast harshly aside by Shaw, how one sentence from him had inspired a crew to do the impossible. How well he had served them all.

The same soaring of pride and greater purpose.

"Then let's do this," she whispered. Her hands were still grasping his face, and he brought his up to mirror her, pulling her to him as he gave her a kiss. His tongue darting out to meet hers as she tilted her head to the side. When they pulled apart, she gave him a small peck.

"Happy Anniversary," she whispered. His lips quirked, impish mischief sparking in his eyes.

"That mean you've forgiven me for letting you sleep?"

Sasha blushed, made a humming sound. "Not quite. But the flowers are beautiful and appreciated," she confirmed. Tom leaned back in his chair, looking at her again like she was the only thing in the world. All of his love, care, and attention focused on her. It made her knees weak, and butterflies erupt in her stomach—always had, from the first time he'd done it. She could feel another blush creeping up her cheeks, so she inhaled. Unable to hide the little smirk and forced herself to start retreating.

"I have to get back to work, _Admiral,_ " she said, tipping her head as she addressed him by rank.

"I'll see you at lunch, _Cooper,_ " came his retort. Enjoying the way she seemed to float giddily as she left.

* * *

It was a little past midnight, and the house was quiet save for the muffled footsteps Sasha heard descending the stairs. Ashely. She was light as a feather, easy to distinguish from her brothers' heavy footfalls and Tom's assured ones. She was sitting quietly in the armchair she preferred, the reading lamp on next to her buried beneath some kind of fluffy blanket Tom had brought home for her one day. Ashely waved to her slightly, going to get water from the dispenser before she decided to join her. This had become somewhat of a routine for them over the past few months. One that Sasha cherished as it allowed her to build a natural bond that slowly let Ashely come out of her shell around her. She'd even told her about the crush she had, after promising she wouldn't tell Tom, of course.

"Hi friend," Sasha said coyly, looking up from her phone screen.

Ashely padded over, falling dramatically onto the sofa, and sprawled herself over it. "What's up? What are you doing?" she greeted casually.

"Playing Sudoku."

Ashley's features twisted into disgust. Math was her least favorite subject, and she couldn't imagine why anyone would purposefully do it, let alone play a game based around it. "Um, you're a nerd," she teased, earning a laugh from Sasha.

"Hey, nerds are cool. I can be cool," she defended. "Plus, I do a lot of calculations when I'm working, critical ones—this helps me stay sharp," she explained. Sasha glanced over the top of the phone, the blue-white glow of the screen illuminating her eyes intensely.

Ashley looked perplexed, "Spy's still have to do Math?" the disappointment of it clear in her voice.

Sasha smirked knowingly. " _Mmm-hmm._ I take it you're not a fan?"

Ash shook her head, _no._

"Maybe you just haven't had the right teacher? I hated it too because I was only ever shown one way, and it never really made sense. Actually, it was your Dad that taught me how to do it easily." The recollection suddenly dawning on her as she bought the phone down and turner her head sideways.

"My Dad was your Math teacher?" Ashely clarified, utterly confused, unable to picture him doing anything else besides bossing people around on his ship.

Sasha shook her head with amusement. "Uh, No. Your Dad was my combat teacher, but there's a lot of calculations you have to do when you're setting up shots—adjusting for wind, distance, speed…"

Ashley was listening intently. She loved hearing about their work but approaching her Father was difficult. She'd made the mistake one time of asking what had happened after they were taken to safety by Kara, and she'd quickly learned to stop questioning. Didn't want her Dad to get that sad again. In fact, she mostly avoided any subject at all relating to work with him unless he brought it up first, or it was a ' _safe'_ topic. Their Grandpa always explained everything her Dad couldn't, Ashley missed him.

"That's cool," she said brightly before faltering, "wait, if my Dad was your teacher and you guys dated, isn't that like, against the rules?" she suddenly realized, eliciting a deep blush from Sasha.

"Very." Her entire body displaying the fact that she was a little uncomfortable admitting it, mostly because she didn't know if it was something he'd want her to know. Could just see a smart, sassy girl like Ashley throwing that at him the next time he told her to follow a rule she didn't like.

The girl's nose wrinkled. "My dad broke rules?" asked incredulously.

Sasha gave her a look that perfectly communicated that she was not to use that information with improper intent. "Like I said, we were young. And stupid." She brought a finger up and pointed it at her, "And, I need you to pretend that I didn't tell you that." Raising her brows and dropping her chin at the roguish twinkle in Ashley's eyes.

"Okay, I won't. But only because you know my secrets, and you would totally tell my Dad if I ratted you out," came her retort to which Sasha chuckled softly.

"Smart girl."

They simply smiled at each other for a moment before Sasha's expression grew more serious, "I heard you managed to talk some sense into him…" a little cautious, testing the waters. Not meaning to overly pry but wanting to open a line of communication between them, if Ashley would allow it. It felt like they had a decent enough foundation to do it at this point.

"Yeah, so he took his old job back then?" her tone full of hope and excitement.

Sasha nodded, grinned softly. "He did—this morning. Didn't even tell me he was going to, so I owe you thanks because we really do need him." A heartfelt and honest confession.

Ashely drew her arms around herself slightly and sat up. Crossing her legs and resting her hands in her lap. "Will he go on your mission with you now?" and Sasha was shocked because where she'd expected her tone to be glum, it was optimistic instead. As if she'd intended for that to be the case by talking with him. The way Sasha moved her head and worked her lips into a curious line expressed her confusion enough for Ashley to pick it up without words. "It's not that I don't want him here, but when we were in Greece, he checked the radio every day like Mom and Grandpa did at the Cabin, listening for the ship. I knew he didn't really want to leave it."

"So you thought if he had his old job back, he'd get to go with me?" came Sasha's reticent reply.

Ashley frowned slightly, "He doesn't?"

Sasha licked her lips and shook her head slowly, "No, it doesn't quite work like that. I don't usually work on the ship like your Dad does, and the position he accepted doesn't usually work on the ship either. He's the CNO. When he went to China, that was different—and there were circumstances that are not typical of the way things work," she explained. Feeling a little discouraged that Ashely's shoulders seemed to slump slightly.

"Oh," Ashely replied simply. "I just want him to be happy, and it seems like he misses it a lot," she mumbled.

Sasha softened and gave her a knowing look. "He does miss it, and that's normal. But he also wants to be here for you and your brother," a gentle reminder. "You guys make him happy too. He might not be great at expressing himself all the time, but he really, _really_ loves you. Be patient with him." Ashley picked at a frayed thread on her socks, pulling it slightly and watching as the hem unraveled. Sasha watched for a moment, sensing that her point hadn't really gotten through.

"Have you ever been on vacation or been to summer camp and had a really great time, and when you came back, you missed it? Wished you could go back and do it all again?" Sasha prompted pensively, a flicker of recognition sparking in Ashely's eyes, and she righted her head slightly, her body language saying, _yes_. "It's like that. Not recently—but before. It's special, Ash. It's hard to explain. But I promise you, just because he misses the times it was good doesn't mean he loves you guys less, or that he doesn't want to be here," she finished softly.

There was a comfortable silence as her words sank in before Ashley queried again, "Do you miss it too?" spoken with genuine interest. The corner of Sasha's lip pulled higher, making the dimple appear in her cheek, and she gave a gentle nod.

"I do. Sometimes." The confession hung in the air between them as Sasha's eyes cast off. "There was this one night in Asia, I couldn't sleep so I went up on deck and it was late, I think around two? There was no one up there—but the _stars?_ They were _so_ bright, wasn't a single cloud in the sky. No planes, no pollution, no light—and the ocean was like glass, and it just—reflected them all. Couldn't make out the horizon cause it was so still. I've never seen it like that before. It was _beautiful._ " Her head moved with reminiscence and wonder, her lips unable to suppress the soft yearning smile that graced them.

"And then your Dad came and sat with me, and we did nothing." Her shoulders shrugged upwards as if it were the best thing in the world, "and for a few hours, everything was perfect, again." The smile faded into nostalgia instead, one of those moments. "That's the kind of stuff we miss, Ash—not anything else," she finished softly, eyes shifting back to meet Ashley's, who was intently listening with reverence.

"My Grandpa used to take me to watch the stars," she whispered, eyes happy and comforted, and the relief that washed over Sasha was like a warm blanket. She'd done something right.

"He did?" a genuine question that encouraged her to share more.

"When my Grandma died of cancer, he told me that that's where we'd see her. That she'd always be the brightest one, and it meant she was okay and waiting for us until we were ready to join her," she said. "He'd let us watch them from the porch at the Cabin while we waited for Dad sometimes. Dad always said no matter where he was, he was looking at the same stars as us—my Mom's there too now," she whispered, her tone sentimental.

Sasha had to swallow the lump in her throat, struck by how poignant it was. "Sounds right to me. Your Grandpa was a very smart man. Much smarter than your Dad," she quipped at the end, earning the smile and the small laugh she'd been looking for. Sasha's eyes drifted to the stairs where she knew he was hovering—had been for the past minute or so, though Ashely hadn't heard it yet. Sasha's ever keen ears hadn't missed the soft click of their bedroom door and his almost silent footsteps.

"Alright, it's late—almost time for him to go pee and come down here," she said, giving him the out. Heard as he quietly went back to their room so Ashely wouldn't find him lingering at the top of the stairs and freak out.

Ashely rolled her eyes, "Urgh, you're right. He's so weird. Does he do anything not on a schedule?"

Sasha let out a bark of laughter, "I don't think so. He has been in the Navy for nearly thirty years," which earned a look of bewilderment from her.

"Oh my god, he's so old!"

"Hey! Not old, experienced. He's not even fifty," Sasha corrected the wry expression illustrating that she wasn't actually admonishing her.

Ashely raised her eyebrows and shook her head, "Old," she argued back.

"Goodnight," Sasha said, smirking at her, which Ashley returned.

"Goodnight Sasha."

Not long after Sasha heard Ashley's door click closed, Tom emerged from their room, appearing in the living room not more than a minute later, hair sticking up slightly, wearing his low-slung sweatpants and a simple black shirt. She took a moment to appreciate his appearance, his long muscular arms, and the veins that silently begged her to touch them. She stood, moving the blanket away from her body with precision and grace. Approached him slowly while his eyes tracked her, stopped a fraction of an inch from touching distance, looking up while he looked down. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

"Hi," she breathed, the quiet lust in her eyes not particularly hidden as they met his.

"Hi," he repeated, and her heart fluttered at the warmth of his gaze, the affection he proclaimed within it. Fingertips tingling with how desperately she'd missed it. Missed him.

The corners of hers creased with fondness, "How much did you hear?"

"Enough," was his simple answer. He searched her expression as the piercing blue of her eyes drew him in like a vortex. All he could think—all he could feel, was her aura surrounding him, his focus narrowed down as he tried committing every detail to memory. He wanted to brand his brain with everything that she was, a deep and endless longing to try and hold her to him forever, mindful of the fact that she'd be gone in less than a week. Cut off from him for three months, and he'd wasted yet more time being cold as he'd tried desperately to stuff how much he loved her into a safer spot – if only his father could see him now. It was stupid. He'd been stupid.

_Stubborn._

He palmed her jaw, and she inhaled, angling her head into his capable hands—eyes closed tight as she let the sensation wash over her. They'd barely touched for three weeks, this morning the first time they'd spared more than polite passing pleasantries for the sake of the kids. She ached for this. For him. His lips covered hers with fervent pressure and her hand came to his, clasping his wrist as the other grasped at the impossibly smooth skin of his freshly shaved cheek. Her tongue met his in earnest—ardent, demanding, consuming.

It wasn't enough.

His arms moved to encircle her, pulled her to him as flush as he possibly could, his broad hands bunching in the oversized fabric of his shirt on her frame, another tucking into the waistband of the pajama pants she wore, digging into the supple cool flesh of her backside. She moaned into his mouth and pushed herself up onto tiptoes, panted as his hardness pressed against her naval. His body was exploding wherever she made contact, blinding white-hot flashes at the back of his eyes; their mouths moving from passionate to desperate. Branding. He lifted her, and she gladly wrapped her legs around his waist. He moved them like she weighed nothing to the stairs. Her back hit the wall with a soft thud when he paused there, pinning her as his lips tore away to drag down her neck—sucking at her pulse point where it wildly fluttered, teeth nipping at her prominent collarbones. Her hands buried in his short hair. Her hips squirming as she ground her center against his hardness—desperately needing the contact, could tell by her movements that she was close and that knowledge alone made him almost come in his pants. That she wanted him badly enough to get this far, and he hadn't even touched her yet.

Every gasp from her lips was the soothing he needed to hear, the slight tremble of her body under his passion everything he needed to know. He tore himself away from her neck, used the last modicum of thought to judge the stairs quickly as she buried herself between his jaw and his chest, legs squeezing around him. He pulled her away from the wall easily and ascended the stairs.

This would be over fast.

He laid her on the sheets and tugged her pants down unceremoniously. Their lips were attacking again – open-mouthed, messy, breathy ones. She felt like her heart was about to explode out of her chest, a wanton sob caught at the back of her throat, and he let out a frustrated moan in response. Clumsy fingers pulled at his sweatpants and boxers, getting caught before allowing him free, their breathing ragged because of the blinding need. Her hips lifted slightly, seeking him, friction, anything to ease the pain, and he took his opportunity – hand grabbing the round flesh of her rear easily, the perfect fit for his wide palms and long fingers, and he squeezed as he pulled her to him; filling her completely with one perfectly angled thrust.

It was the release she so desperately needed; she bit into his shoulder and cried out—the fabric and muscle appropriately muffling the delightful sound for his ears only. He grunted and buried his head deep into her neck, pumped into her with no restraint as she convulsed around him. Kept her safe and held her to him as her entire body locked up from the pleasure that was almost too much, a little too intense that she didn't know if she could take it. She couldn't breathe, could feel her heart hammering heavily as she clung on for dear life while he pounded into her orgasm. Not fifteen seconds later, he came with such blinding ferocity he wondered if she'd just taken something from him. Maybe a piece of his soul. Had to stifle the strangled cry with his pillow because he couldn't keep it in. He rarely lost it like this.

They stayed locked that way for several minutes while the rushing waters of need slowly calmed. Came back to their senses, only find they hadn't even managed to take off their clothes, both sets of pants tangled and stretched at their thighs, probably irreparably in her case – and it was beautiful. It was everything.

He kissed her again, lovingly. Bore his soul in it, apologized in only a way that his hands and his body could, and she could feel moisture in the corners of her eyes because she understood it for what it was. It was a promise. He was giving himself to her wholly. He was done trying to fight it, done trying to hold something back, trying to keep some part of him safe.

He was giving her everything that he had.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning that we're about to head into some dark places involving the realities of war and the lasting mental effects it brings. From this point forward, there will be graphic depictions of violence that involve minors. In case there is confusion on the cover names: Josh = Danny, Mitch = Brown (new recruit to vulture team), Kendi = Azima, Olivia = Sasha, Luke = Wolf.

**May 4** **th** **, 2016** — **St. Louis, Missouri**

He was puttering. Could hear his Dad say it in his head.

Puttering about the house like a lost kid in the grocery store that didn't know what to do with themselves. She'd left not more than a day ago, and he already couldn't stand it. He missed her, desperately so. Found himself hovering near her vacant office a time or two at work today, somehow having forgotten despite being painfully aware that something was missing, that she wouldn't be in there. An odd paradox. Kept reliving the moment they'd said goodbye over and over in his mind—even the kids had been sad. Sam, a little tearful and Ashely genuinely disappointed to see her go. Goodbye's they'd said in the privacy of their home rather than the airstrip.

America knew he was back, and the attention from the press was more than she needed. When anonymity was the difference between life and death, it made little sense to be publicly attached to Earth's most famous man. It was something they'd lectured the kids about, hammered the point home that there could be no discussion of her at school, and absolutely under no circumstances, any pictures of her shared on their social media or with friends. No unsolicited visitors either—no friends from school, no one outside of the crew and people who understood the importance of discretion. They couldn't take that chance, not when she was about to go under deep cover.

He melted into the sofa, stared longingly at the armchair she preferred, left empty with her blanket neatly folded over the back, and thought himself pathetic. He was forty-nine and pining like a housewife. The irony not lost on him. He sighed and pulled his phone out of his pocket, pulled open the photos, and looked at a recent picture he'd taken. One where she flipped him off—the memory bringing a small smile because she hated being caught off guard, and that's precisely what he'd done. Another of she and Ashely, pulling stupid expressions at the dinner table. The time she and Sam had fallen asleep on the sofa watching a movie – a picture she didn't know he had. Another that Kara had sent them from the Christmas Party, one where he must have said something funny because she was radiantly laughing at him from the other end of the sofa they'd camped on.

A heavy exhale left his lips, and he put the phone down. Doing himself more harm than good by obsessing, yet he couldn't quite help himself—he'd fallen down the rabbit hole, and he wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to endure three months of this.

Radio silence.

* * *

**May 4** **th** **, 2016** — **Base Camp, Panama**

The set up was rudimentary at best, not more than a dozen or so cabin tents gathered in a clearing, centered around a communal space that functioned as a mess hall—a rustic construction with a water recycling system that functioned as their shower stalls, further from that some outhouses rigged to serve as their restrooms. It was miserable—it was war. They'd expected nothing else.

Space was tight, and they didn't have the luxury to choose, so they smushed five cots into the tight space, not more than a foot of space between each one—just enough for their packs and a small pop-up table each. Team synergy was the kind of thing that would make or break this kind of mission. She had little concern for the old-timers, only for Brown. Nothing wrong with him, but it was tough being the outsider, even more after the hell they'd all weathered to find those seeds.

Azima stretched out, kicking off her boots and laid back with a heavy sigh, "Reminds me of the refugee camps in Africa," she mused. Sasha tipped her head, stomping on a bug that had crawled its way through the flaps clambering in the tight space to reach her cot—she was against the wall, her choice, preferred only one person beside her. Just a habit.

"Home sweet home," Sasha added sarcastically. She opened her backpack open, pulled out a book, some bedding she'd brought, snacks to add to their private stash, small luxuries that would see them through—however menial they appeared.

Green settled on his cot beside her, mirroring her ministrations with his own pack, "It's not so bad, I think I can spoon Mitch from here if I get lonely," he joked, using Brown's cover name and punching him good-naturedly on the bicep earning a fast quip in response.

"Of course, baby, whatever you need." Laughter erupted between them all, and the apprehension Sasha felt eased, looked like he'd fit right in.

"Hey, if we're having an orgy, don't leave me out," Wolf chimed, the accent prolonging his vowels as they rolled off his tongue.

Sasha smirked, "What do you say, Kendi? Wanna switch with Josh, and we can give em a show?" addressing Azima and Green covertly.

"You just let me know. Whenever you are ready," Azima replied seductively. Brown let out a wolf whistle, as Green and Wolf laughed some more and made catcalls. Sasha shook her head a wide grin on her face at their banter.

"Alright boys, settle down—might I remind you, this is a _Christian_ missionary camp, and that kind of behavior will not stand," Sasha falsely reprimanded them, the salacious eyebrow and tip of her head making it clear she was joking.

"If only my priest could see me now," Green quipped, closing his eyes dramatically and blessing himself with the holy cross, and Sasha couldn't help the snort of laughter that came out. They settled themselves—the banter continuing to fly before finally dying down into comfortable silence instead. They'd made their introductions at dinner at the communal tables, met each of the fifteen odd volunteers that kept this camp running. Received an orientation on what was expected of them over the coming days, the type of treatments they usually gave in the clinical tent, as well as an update on the situation with the rebels. And now, they'd retreated to spend their first night in the jungle.

This was home.

Sasha was staring at the canopy above her head, the contours of the fabric distorted by her mosquito net. The air was sticky, oppressively humid, and thick. The sounds of the jungle, a mass of insects humming like traffic on a busy road keeping her awake as she tried desperately not to think of the ache. Beside her, Danny chanced a glance over; she'd been quiet after dinner—too quiet.

"Doesn't get any easier," he spoke quietly, could hear Brown snoring and Azima and Wolf absorbed in their own intimate conversation in hushed tones. Sasha turned her head toward him, catching his gaze through the net.

"I don't think that's what you're supposed to say if you're trying to make me feel better." A wry retort to which he softly chuckled. No, it didn't help—in fact, he wasn't really sure what had prompted him to say it, but it felt right. "But if it makes you feel better, _I know_ ," she offered gently, letting the implication hang in the night air between them.

The resentment, the reality as it set in that they were here for three months, that their hopes of a brighter future – their idea that they'd reached it when they handed over the seeds, dashed. That realization that the finish line was in sight, yet the goalposts had shifted, _again_. That in some ways, the stakes had never been higher because they both had so much to lose.

"I keep telling myself it's the last one," _the last mission_ , "yet somehow, I always find myself back here," he mused, turning his head back to look up at his own canopy and net.

Didn't know if it was the fact that she missed home, the fact that the jungle was miserable and their conditions so dire, or the fact that he was being so transparent with her – but she felt the need to confess, "I told him I'd stay if he asked, and I was one day too late—I dragged him back with me." A small scoff came from her throat, "I had it _all_ —and here I am."

"Crazy, isn't it."

"The very definition," she agreed softly—the silence stretching between them. She rolled slightly, moving from her back to rest her weight on her side, turned toward the side of the tent, and bought the fabric she'd been holding to her nose—breathed deeply, the scent of Tom filling her senses. It was the only thing she had of him other than memories, a shirt. Something that no-one would look twice at should they get caught.

_She missed them._

* * *

**May 18** **th** **, 2016** — **White House, St. Louis, Missouri**

"Excuse me, Sir."

Tom looked up from his computer at his assistant, a new addition that he wasn't entirely thrilled about. It's not that she'd done anything wrong, just that she lingered a little too long sometimes, and it made him uncomfortable. He wasn't used to dealing with anything but complete professionalism and decorum from his 's _ubordinates'_ and he was still adjusting to this new crowd. "The James is on Navy Red for you," she explained, holding the door open as he snapped responsively out of his chair.

"Nathan James, this is CNO actual—have you heard from Vulture Team?"

" _This is Commander Slattery, affirmative, Sir_ — _received the first transmission right on schedule. Should be decrypted within the hour and you'll have the full report."_

Tom let out the breath he felt like he'd been holding since she'd left. They'd made their check-in, which meant everything was okay. He reset the clock again, two more weeks until they were next due. "Outstanding," Tom answered.

" _Sir, if I may_ — _there was something else that wasn't encrypted,"_ Slattery paused, awaiting confirmation that he could proceed with disclosing it on the open channel with comms specialists listening. 

Tom frowned slightly, a million possible scenarios running through his mind, though if she'd sent it unsecured, it clearly wasn't classified information, "Go ahead?"

" _Just three words_ — _On a swivel_ — _I take it you'll know what that means?"_

The corners of his lips pulled into a soft smile, and his eyes crinkled, "I do—Thank you Captain, maintain position in the bay until zero-hundred hours, then proceed home as scheduled—this is the CNO, out."

" _Nathan James copies all, Roger, out."_

* * *

**June 10** **th** **, 2016** — **Base Camp, Panama**

"Liv, Josh—we need you, now!" Wolf yelled, sprinting through the camp in the direction of the commotion from the medical tent. Sasha and Green dropped their cards quickly, a bottle of water spilling on the ground where his foot knocked it against the rickety overturned plastic crates, something they'd fashioned as a game table, as they darted out rapidly.

They grabbed gloves, pulling them on roughly, and followed the sounds of wailing. Sasha nearly vomited when she saw it.

" _What the hell?"_ she breathed, eyes fluttering with shock and breath immediately narrowing to short, stilted jerks. Beside her, Danny mirrored her stance, his horror palpable.

"Grab those tourniquets—we need to stop the bleeding!" the frantic instructions from Carter, their most senior and experienced doctor. It snapped her out of her stupor, and she rushed forward, hands shaking as she helped secure them around the flailing limbs.

 _Oh God,_ Sasha panicked.

The sounds were traumatizing, he was crying, no, _screaming_ as he howled in pain and his mother wailed at them to save him from the floor. The anguish in Danny's voice shrill as he asked, "Can't you do something—for the pain?" only to be told grimly, "I already gave him as much morphine as I could."

The blood was everywhere. Wouldn't stop coming—couldn't believe so much could come from such a tiny little body.

" _Fuck!"_ Danny yelled next to her, "It's okay, don't cry buddy—it's okay, alright—shhh."

"Oh my god," Wolf moaned to her left, the three of them desperately trying to pack the stumps and staunch the bleeding.

"It's coming too fast!" Carter warned desperately.

" _¡No! Dios mío, por favor, no, por favor, ayúdalo"_ the mother wailed, clawing at the ground.

"Estamos intentando," _we're trying_ , Sasha called weakly, her voice sounding like it was coming from another body.

"Shit!—he's crashing."

She looked on in horror as Carter tried to coax life into the little guy's body, the size of his hands compared to his chest gut-wrenching. Caught Danny's tormented eyes, swimming with despair. The noise faded until all she could hear was a constant, high-pitched tinnitus ringing in her ears. Felt like she was floating as she watched Carter step back, as he shook his head and backed away, viscously ripping his gloves off and running ragged hands through his hair.

"No," she breathed—unconsciously, though no one paid any mind.

Danny gritted his teeth, nodding obsessively as he tried to make sense of it, his breath puffing out in short, stunted gasps to the point that she could see the drops of spit on his lips shooting out. She reached a hand out, touched the child's hair, only to stop in shock at the thick ugly blood her fingers spread through it. The blood that was coated all over her hands and soaking her grey shirt.

The floor. 

Everything. 

Everywhere she looked. 

_The fuck had just happened?_

The sound came rushing back as she was jostled out of position by the mother who was screaming nonsensically in her grief; Sasha stumbled back—looked down at her gloved hands as she held them palms up trying to make sense of it. They were shaking. Didn't even realize that her feet had taken her aimlessly out of the tent toward the center clearing, not until she stumbled into one of the crates and she stopped. Crumpled to the floor, knees bent, elbows resting on them and threw her head back—the sky.

It was blue.

The same color as his eyes. The silence came back, the tinnitus blessing her with its calm. Blocking out the screams in her head, the sounds of that child, of his mother over his lifeless ravaged body. 

She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths and decided to let herself leave.

_Tom._

* * *

It was late, well past midnight, and Danny hadn't come in, was still sitting by the fire staring brokenly at its flames. His eyes looked up though he made no other motion to greet her as she quietly pulled a crate forward and positioned herself beside him. Silently waiting, offering the support he so clearly needed.

Focused instead on listening to the sounds of the fire as it crackled, watched as the twigs glowed and charred wildly—hypnotically. After a time, he finally spoke. "He was—he was just a kid."

Her jaw flexed and she tucked her head closer to her chin, mind assaulting her again with the sounds of the pain he'd been in. The sheer amount of blood, the machete marks where they'd missed. Felt the tremor and bile rise in her throat again. 

Danny sucked in a breath through his teeth, it made a hissing sound, _"Who does that?"_

Humans, her mind supplied, and the dark spiral of despair engulfed her again, the knowledge that she was fighting to save the same species that did this. Acting as if the depravity would one day stop, that they were somehow fixing it. That any of this was making a difference—that it even mattered anymore. Who were they kidding? 

"They cut his—" Sasha grabbed his hand suddenly, forcefully, the abrupt action cutting him off and silencing him. Danny turned to look at her, angry, lost tears brimming in his eyes. She rose her gaze slowly, her expression almost inhuman as she answered him ferociously.

"So we take their hands and their feet and leave them to crawl through the jungle to die—just like they did him."

The conviction in her voice gave Danny pause, but also recompense. He squeezed her hand back, sniffing and nodding silently. An eye for an eye—that's something he could do. Hell, it was something he wanted. Good guys meant nothing in a world like this in a world where all he could see was Frankie on that table butchered alive. 

* * *

**July 2** **nd** **, 2016** — **Mount Pleasant, South Carolina**

"Holy shit!" Ashley exclaimed, pressing her face against the glass of her Dad's truck window as they pulled up on the house, absently muttering "Sorry," in response to the ' _Ash! Language'_ she'd received.

"Whoa!" Sam said in excitement, un-buckling his belt.

Tom shook his head with endearment bemused by their reactions.

"Why didn't you tell us Sasha's rich!?" Ashley asked, following her brother who'd quickly exited the car to inspect—watched as they peered through the windows of the double-wide entry door to try and get a better look.

"Because, it's not important," he said, coming up behind them and fetching the key from his pocket. He swung the door open for them, and they each stepped in, mouths hanging agape at the sheer splendor of it.

"This is awesome!" Sam yelled, running into the living room to check it out. Ashely—though always more reserved, looked enthusiastically around too, reaching out to touch the banister as she stared up at the impressive chandelier.

"This is _really nice_ Dad, maybe we should move here," her tone letting him know she was only half-joking. 

" _Ash_ —this is Sasha's house and she's being kind and letting us use it as a vacation spot, but I don't want you getting any crazy ideas, okay? Sam, get back here," his son skipped back into view, holding a bunch of remotes that he'd found.

"Have you seen the TV!" he started excitedly, waving a particular remote at them both before Tom held out his hand firmly, used his fingers to beckon Sam to hand it back, a task his son performed begrudgingly.

"Listen to me, both of you. We're here to help clean up, alright? This stuff is important, and you need to respect it. It doesn't belong to you or us. It belonged to her and her husband, and you need to treat it with respect. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Dad," they said quickly in unison.

"Alright, come help me get the generators off the truck."

* * *

**July 4** **th** **, 2016** — **Base Camp, Panama**

"I made us all some flags," Brown joked, handing them terribly hand-drawn renditions of the star-spangled banner as they sat around their campfire, warm beers in hand.

"Hey mate, did you forget I'm not American?" Wolf quipped, accepting his and twirling it around with faux enthusiasm.

"Naw, come on—you're like an honorary member at this point—you too Kendi," Green hollered.

"Here, here," Sasha spoke, raising her bottle before drowning it back, grimacing at the unpleasant flat taste. No matter, it was her sixth one, and the rest of them weren't much better. She slumped back in the camp chair. Legs splayed out, sagging as her head lolled in the back while she stared up at the stars. Only vaguely listening to the banter surrounding her. Sasha mumbled a quick thanks when Danny hit her hand with another bottle, prompting her to take it.

Kept the alcohol coming.

Two months.

She'd been gone for two months, and the lines between Olivia and Sasha were blurred. She took several healthy gulps and let her mind wander. They'd be at her house by now, probably enjoying some smores out back—maybe Tom had even managed to find some fireworks for the kids to let off. She was sure he'd have fixed the power by now, likely got the AC working—they'd need it—it was humid there after all. Probably fixed the water since they had their own ground source, all it needed was pressure.

She closed her eyes.

She missed him. Terribly. The smell on his shirt had long since faded—soiled inevitably by the grime of the jungle. By the fact that she could never quite get clean, not in a place as muggy and sticky as this.

She just wanted to be near him again.

She missed his hands. The way he spoke. His smile, his laugh, the sound of his soft snoring beside her—the warmth of his skin. The way he ate. The rhythm of his heartbeat. His kids.

Everything.

She missed everything.

* * *

**July 4** **th** **, 2016** — **Mount Pleasant, South Carolina**

"I miss Sasha," Ashely said quietly as she leaned against her father with his arm around her on the outdoor sofa that faced out onto the river. It was a beautiful night, clear, humid, but not unbearable. Though she was being devoured by no-see-ums and he'd have to remember to bring some repellant next time.

"Me too," he admitted quietly. 

"Do you think she's okay?"

Tom squeezed her arm slightly, "I know she's okay" he told her, ignoring the ever-present worry in favor of easing her fears. Felt her nod against his chest. Sam had long since fallen asleep, hadn't inherited the propensity for insomnia—much like Darien in that regard. That kid could sleep through anything. He chanced a glance down, not missing the tell-tale expression that let him know she was reflecting on something, trying to decide if she should come out with it or not. Waited patiently, listening to the sounds of the crickets around them.

"Can I ask you a question?" Ash started after a time.

"Of course," he replied easily.

"Do you want to marry her?" it was timid, hard for him to decipher the emotion behind it, and so he chose carefully. Didn't want to chance throwing a wrench in the nice rhythm they'd all found together. Sasha had done an excellent job of offering a supportive ear, but not overstepping the invisible bounds that could be interoperated as her somehow _'replacing'_ , and he was proud and thankful to Ashely for being so receptive. For giving her a chance because he'd seen how vehemently she'd hated Cali, and he'd always been afraid that she'd simply redirect that resentment toward Sasha.

"I've thought about it," he decided upon—honest, but not the entire story, nor the whole truth. Ashely looked up at him, sensing she wasn't getting the real answer. It wasn't so much a question of if but when. If he had to admit it, he'd known that from the minute he'd been forced to split with her in Hong Kong, when he realized how surely he didn't want to walk away. How he was far from done with Sasha Cooper, or Martin as he'd known her in the past. 

"I wouldn't mind if you did, Sasha is fun and I like her being around," she offered, peering up at him with doe eyes trying to coax him to tell the truth.

Tom's expression colored a little surprised. "When'd you get so smart?" he asked, giving her a coy smirk, trying to hide the lump that had started to form in his throat. Ashley rolled her eyes and shoved at him, earning a smile. But it was her next sentiment that did him in, "I think Mom would like her too," and he immediately worked his jaw. Had to clear his throat to dislodge the tight ball of emotion, a memory assaulting him, so vividly he could almost hear Darien speak.

_'I can see why you loved her. She's special.'_

He tucked his chin down to his chest for a few moments as he tried to compose himself, sniffed and blinked a few times to clear the unmistakable moisture that had just filled his eyes. Found that he couldn't speak, so simply settled for nodding instead to acknowledge her comment. Ashley shifted so she could wrap her arms around his neck, and he returned her embrace.

"I love you, Dad"

"Love you too, baby," he choked out.

* * *

**July 24** **th** **, 2016** — **Panamanian Jungle, Panama**

They parted from the camp three days ago, as far as their former hosts were concerned, they'd fulfilled their humanitarian stint and were securely on their way back to the states. In reality, they'd moved into the final phase of the operation—the culmination of countless covert trips into the jungle to monitor movement and activities during the night. One by one, they were going to topple the three main camps, the last of which housed the leader. They moved with stealth through the brush, weapons ready to engage anything that crossed their path.

Danny grimaced, a horrible smell permeating his senses—his keen eyes scanned the ground for a source, noticing a small clearing up ahead, and he silently gestured with his hand for the team to be alert. They pushed through the dense foliage, and grimly he realized what they were about to uncover before his mind actually processed it. Stopped at the edge of the pit filled with rotting bodies—innocent villagers who'd resisted strewn crudely with no regard for their sanctity—left uncovered to bake in the tropical sun.

Just another example of the hell that humans could unleash. He looked around at his teammates, Wolf, Azima, Brown—their expressions mirroring his own. Weary, despondent, disgraced. Searched for Cooper only to find that she wasn't near them, he snapped his gun up and moved quickly.

"Cooper?!" 

Listened in response, only to hear the sounds of retching about 25 feet into the bush. He followed the sounds and found her hunched over, emptying her stomach all over the ground and heaving in ragged gasps. This was not like her.

"Cooper, you good?" he tried, registering as the rest of the group caught up behind him. When she didn't respond, he made the decision. "Set a permitter—make sure we're not being watched," he commanded, and they each nodded back at him, scurrying off to secure the space. He pulled his pack off, grabbed a canteen of water, and placed it forcibly in her shaking hand. He knelt beside her and placed one hand firmly on her back, where her tac vest ended near her neck, "Take deep breaths," he told her and listened as she struggled to breathe.

"You're good Cooper, just breathe, alright."

* * *

**August 16** **th** **, 2016** — **USS Nathan James, Panamanian Bay**

" _Mother, this is Nomad_ — _package is secure, headed back to your position now."_

Mike hung up the comms with a triumphant look on his face, a few claps and cheers erupting around the Bridge. He did not miss the stiff exhale next to him as Tom stood, hands clasped tightly behind his back, chin tucked against his chest, jaw clenched, and eyes closed shut tightly as the relief washed over him. As the confirmation of her vitality arrived.

Hadn't been even the slightest bit surprised when he'd showed up, not more than four hours after Vulture Team missed extraction on the 10th. In fact, Mike had purposefully instructed his at-sea cabin to be cleaned in preparation of Tom's arrival, not twenty minutes after they missed the deadline. 

Mike clasped Tom on the shoulder and squeezed it, one firm motion that communicated more than words could that he understood the kind of torture he'd been in for the past six days. The kind of torture he lived with every day, not knowing what had happened to Christine and his girls—the worst kind of limbo a man could find himself in.

"Go, I'll handle things up here."

The Helo hovered barely above deck, about to land, and Kat called over to them, catching Sasha's eyes as she did, "Home sweet home!" But it was Danny who got her attention. He tapped her arm, a quick sharp gesture that snapped her out of the vacant trance she'd been in. Sasha turned her head, confused because he looked genuinely relieved, and she couldn't figure out why given the magnitude of what they'd just done—realized as he spoke that he wasn't relieved for himself, but for her.

"Admiral's here." He gestured with his head out of the window, and slightly down toward the bay. Sasha vaguely wondered if he was joking, pulling her leg in a way that he didn't realize could possibly break her right now. Tom was supposed to be in Missouri. Sasha moved to peer around Danny just as the Helo jostled its contact with the ground, and she saw him. _Tom_. Wind from the blades blowing the bottoms of his BDU jacket up as they whined into slower rotation, and then a complete stop. A noise stuck at the back of her throat, and she bit the inside of her cheeks hard to keep it inside.

Danny grabbed the lapel of her vest and pushed her forward, helping her climb over him and all the gear so she could disembark first. Knew the gnawing desperation more closely than he'd like to admit—the one where you'd been to hell and back, and the only person who could make it better was stuck somewhere half a world away from you. _Kara_. She wasn't there to greet him, but he knew she'd be up in CIC and he'd see her just as soon as he could. He was fucked up too, no doubt, but he hadn't been the one hyperventilating in the jungle and avoiding sleep. Sasha leaned back to grab her things, but he pushed her out. "I've got your shit, now go!"

She didn't need to be told twice. She hopped down, bending as she moved to make sure she didn't catch a blade and strode quickly towards him—a movement he found himself returning despite protocol. Despite the fact that he was the CNO and he wasn't supposed to behave this way on the ship but something about the way he'd seen Danny push her out, the fact that he was gathering her things for her, the shell shocked vacant look in her eyes, as well as his own muddled emotions, told him that at this precise moment, he no longer gave two fucks. 

She managed to hold it together right up until she caught his eyes, and then she was gasping for breath. Collapsing herself against his chest, fists balled up tightly in his jacket as she tried to meld herself to him. Tom hugged her back, just as ferociously. Squeezing her tighter than was probably comfortable, but he couldn't help it, red flags flying all over the place as he felt how much she was trembling. As he registered how much weight she'd lost— _again_.

She buried her face in his neck, inhaled the scent of his skin, and felt the familiarity course through her veins like a drug.

_Home._

She was home.


	7. Chapter 7

Sasha forced herself to pull away, had let the emotions consume her for what in reality had only spanned about ten seconds just to be able to maintain control—they were back, but there were still post-op duties to complete. Now was not the time. She'd needed the momentary comfort and relief, and she suspected he had too, though he remained graceful as ever about it. Much more than she. His eyes swept her quickly, and it was only then that he noticed the immense amount of dried blood soiling her clothes, not immediately apparent because she was wearing all black. Sasha did not miss the flash of concern, nor the mental checklist he was going through and pre-empted his question.

"It's not mine." Didn't miss the way his eyes narrowed slightly, because there was an edge to her tone, and he didn't like it. Filed it away for later, he'd determine how much he needed to pry after he read the official report.

Danny reached them, arms laden with both of their gear. Tom caught eyes with him and exchanged a silent look, one of mutual respect and gratitude ended with a reciprocated head nod. Tom took note of the fact that he was covered in just as much blood, though interestingly, Azima, Brown, and Wolf were not.

Sasha turned and addressed Vulture Team, appropriately composed and standing a respectable distance from him, though she was hyper-aware of his presence at her side. Mentally battling with the fact that all she wanted to do was stare at him. "Debrief in the wardroom, fifteen minutes." The sooner she could wrap this up, the sooner she could forget and go back to the safe little bubble she'd been living in prior to this mission.

"Yes, Ma'am."

She gave Tom a look that communicated they were about to move, and he fell into step behind her wordlessly. "Please tell me you brought me a change of clothes," she muttered, stepping through the knife's edge of the door with the muscle memory and grace of any of the tenured crew. She had well and truly developed her sea legs over the past few years, and the James was now just as much her home as anyone else's.

"And your soap," he confirmed readily, and she let out a noise of appreciation.

"Mike give you his cabin?" The hope that she might even get her own private shower almost too much to bear.

"Consider it your lucky day." Usually, the grime didn't faze her, could hang with it through a debrief until everything was settled, and all of her post-op duties fulfilled, but the blood-caked to her skin from that jungle was burning her in a way it never had before. Was making her nauseous, and she needed to get it off as soon as humanly possible.

He'd barely finished closing the door before she started stripping, peeling the vest and stiff clothes off, discarding them in a heap upon the floor. In different circumstances, he'd consider it a perfectly good invitation, but his entire attention was focused on checking her for injuries. Finding thankfully that aside from a few bug bites and a few days-old bruises, she was fine. Lean, her fat reserves depleted to the point that her hip bones shot out, and the bumps of her spine were made visible—but nothing that a few weeks of square meals wouldn't fix. They'd been living on MRE's since leaving the camp, and it's not like they'd had an abundance of food prior to it either. The rebels didn't take care of those that opposed them, controlled the food, and hoarded it for their militia instead, leaving the rest to starve.

Tom headed to his duffel and pulled out her clothes and toiletries, the sound of the shower filling the room. Wordlessly took the bottles of shampoo and conditioner to her along with her body wash and loofah—she hadn't bothered to close the door. She wanted every second she could in his presence before their work inevitably forced them apart. She took them from him greedily and went to work, watching as the water swirled a sordid mixture of blood, dirt, and suds. The simple smell doing wonders to wash away the mental grime to remind her of who she was. Drawing her back to the present, and away from the out-of-body experience she'd been having for the past month.

_Sasha._

She smelled like Sasha again.

After a few moments spent leaning against the wall in the tight space, Tom moved back into the cabin, shrugged off his jacket, and placed it on the desk. When he stepped back in, he grabbed the Shampoo and deposited a generous amount in his palms, stepping closer though careful not to get too wet, and spread it through her hair for her while she scrubbed at her hands. She was trying furiously to dislodge the blood from under her fingernails, but without a stiff brush, it was proving challenging. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, the feel of his long fingers, scrubbing gently at her scalp almost too much to bear.

She had missed him _so_ much.

"Rinse," he said softly, guiding her to turn around, so her back faced the shower head as he ran his fingers through her hair, careful not to snag them on tangles. She obliged, letting his touch ground her, letting it push away everything that she'd done. He made quick, efficient work by repeating the same with her conditioner, the nature of it allowing him to work out most of the knots in her hair. The pit in his stomach growing larger with every passing second as he watched her scrubbing franticly over spots that were already clean. The skin there starting to turn red with the irritation. He glanced at his wristwatch; they had eight minutes.

Tom reached out to still her movements, slowly placing his hands over hers and taking the loofah out of them, "It's alright," he breathed, feeling the tremor still under his touch. Directed her to wash the last of the soap from her body before shutting the shower off and wrapping her in a towel. He pulled her out and settled himself against the sink, legs parted so she could stand between them, and drew her head to rest against his chest. Her hair immediately soaked a patch of his shirt. Sasha curled her arms around him and closed her eyes—cheekbone resting upon his clavicle as she listened to his strong heartbeat. Tom held her there for three more minutes until they had to move, gut churning with concern. She hadn't stopped shaking since they'd arrived.

* * *

"What's the situation with Arias?" Sasha's eyes scanned the drafted trade agreement, verifying the key details. Mike stood at the head of the table, Tom directly opposite her, Danny sat beside and the rest of the team strewn throughout the room. She'd chosen to sit—wasn't sure she'd be able to stop herself from swaying if she stood. Hadn't slept for three days.

"He's ready to sign the agreement as soon as we give confirmation that Vega is dead," Tom answered.

Her mouth twitched. Images of Vega crawling on the ground, begging for his life as she swung the machete down again assaulting her thoughts. She blinked, languid and disoriented before peering up and meeting his gaze across the table. Tom's eyes narrowed a fraction, and she felt acutely aware of the fact that he'd zeroed in on it. He watched as her throat bopped up and down as she swallowed, avoiding him to look somewhere just past his shoulder instead.

"He's dead. All three base camps have been neutralized—all of his top leadership gone. Shouldn't take much for Arias to take back the canal. I'm sure most of the remaining forces will flip back once they realize their source of food is gone," she confirmed, tone purposefully even and detached.

Tom's arms were folded across his chest, and he studied her, the corners of his mouth turning downward as he gave a short nod. "Alright. I'll inform POTUS now." Uncrossed his arms and made as if to leave but lingered on her for just a fraction more than was professional before exiting the wardroom.

As soon as Tom was gone Sasha visibly relaxed. The feeling that he was staring into her soul was putting her on edge, threatening her hard-won control. No-one could know what they had done. Why they had been delayed for almost a week. Why she and Danny had purposefully split from the rest of the group to take the main camp. A move that had almost cost them their lives and the entire mission. Didn't know how much longer she could withstand his scrutiny without caving and spilling her guts to him—not when she was in this state.

In her peripheral, she caught Mike's eyes and he quickly changed his expression from concern to neutral. Sasha clenched her jaw. Chided herself because she'd almost forgotten how perceptive he could be—hadn't seen him in eight months since the Christmas Party, and _of course_ if Tom suspected something was wrong, Slattery suspected too. They were two peas in their ridiculous omnipresent pod.

Mike cleared his throat slightly before addressing them, feeling the awkward tension permeating from Sasha in waves. "I'm sure you're all tired, and the rest of you are most definitely in need of a shower," he quipped, which earned some amused smiles and chuckles from Azima, Wolf, and Brown."I'll reconvene at 0-eight hundred tomorrow for the official reports."

Sasha nodded at him once sharply in confirmation, and the wardroom cleared out quickly. All but her and Danny. She met his troubled gaze as soon as the door clicked. "Are you still with me?"

Danny nodded his head quickly, "Yeah—no taking it back now." Gruff, as tortured as she felt, and Sasha swallowed. Her mind supplying her with those awful visuals again. The sounds. The fear.

Blinking again, voice unwavering though her soul screamed. "We stick with the plan—we can't tell anyone."

Danny's dark expression met her gaze then, the resolution clear in those green-blue eyes. "We stick with the plan," he confirmed, and though she _felt_ like Sasha was sinking, it gave her a small comfort to know she wasn't completely alone this time.

* * *

Tom stood on the bridge looking out onto the calm waters as they sailed back to Mayport. Sasha had busied herself well with post-op duties. Spent hours typing up her official report at the computer in Mike's Cabin. Had barely picked at the food Tom brought to her, and she'd spent the past two hours of his time at the helm holed up on the bridge-wing in the lookout chair staring aimlessly into the night. Red light glowing against her silhouette framed by the blackened night with feet propped up against the railing.

It was late. Almost midnight. Tom had expected her to be asleep by now, report said they'd been going non-stop for the past two days trying to make extraction. Unable to ignore the concern any longer, he stepped out onto the bridge wing and came to stand beside her. Watched as the light breeze played with her wavy hair. Clasped his hands behind his back to occupy them against the surge that wanted to hold her. Couldn't do that right now. Not on the deck while he was acting CO, a suggestion he'd made to give Mike and Garnett some much-needed rest. Sasha glanced at him from peripheral—a move he caught, but she made no further effort to acknowledge him.

"You wanna talk about it?" he tried after a time, knowing she'd shut him down or deflect but needing to try none-the-less.

"I missed this. The open—being able to see the horizon—jungle's claustrophobic," she muttered absently. Her tone was monotonous. Too flat, as if she was strung out on drugs, though he recognized it as a side effect of sleep deprivation.

Tom pursed his lips and tucked his chin to his chest before he spoke again, his request soft. "You should get some sleep." The comment hung in the air, the soft shake of her head the only indication that he'd been heard. "Just tell me what you need, Sasha— _please_?" he tried again, and she furrowed her brow, the tone of his voice finally having broken through the all-consuming numbness she'd been drowning in for a few precious seconds. Reminding her that she was real. _This_ was real, and she was alive.

"This, Tom. I need to sit here and do nothing—and I need you to let me."

He closed his eyes against the pain that shot through his chest.

* * *

**Wednesday, August 24th, 2016—St. Louis, Missouri**

The peaceful slumber in which he rested was interrupted by violent thrashing. Tom snapped his eyes open, the fogginess in his brain departing rapidly as he took in his surroundings. Beside him, Sasha was twisted in a fetal position, franticly trying to untangle her arms from the sheets in her dream-locked state. He moved quickly and pulled them off her before grasping her arm firmly and shaking.

"Wake up."

Experience told him removing the obstruction, and a firm voice was usually enough to help her snap out of it. This time, however, it didn't. Frowning, Tom knelt next to her, the depression of his weight on the mattress rolling her to him—a mistake—Sasha flew into a panicked state. Raising abruptly and trying to fight him off.

"Hey!"

Tom pulled her to him, her back against his chest which earned a scratch that bit at the skin on his forearm. "Shhh, you're dreaming." An attempt to soothe spoken directly into her ear. Both hands grabbed her wrists and crossed her arms over her torso. Pulling both towards her hips—a simple restraint technique the military taught to safely detain and deescalate someone so they couldn't harm themselves. Sasha tried to twist herself out of it. Hips rising from the bed and legs kicking out. Her foot caught the bedside lamp sending it crashing to the ground along with the items on her nightstand.

"Jesus Sash!" There was fear in his voice. Used his legs to hook hers so she couldn't move as she continued to thrash against him. Movements that were futile because now he'd managed to subdue her, there was no way she could get out. Tom had twice her strength.

"Sasha, wake up," he tried again. Her breathing was labored, fussing audibly while she struggled. Vaguely, Tom heard a door open and footsteps come running down the hall and he cringed.

"Dad!?" Ashely's muffled concerned voice came. Sam stuck his head out of his room, eyes stinging sensitively while they tried to adjust to the light. Ashley gestured for him to stay back.

"It's okay, Ash. It was just a light." Tom called.

Ashley frowned on the other side of the door, could hear what sounded like Sasha crying. "What's going on?"

 _"Ash,"_ he warned in the tone he used to communicate he was serious, "I can't right now, okay? I need you to go back to your room."

She hovered for several more seconds, torn with concern and confusion. Wanting to defy him, to push the door open and see for herself but knew she'd be in big trouble if she did. Huffing out a breath, Ashely stepped away from their bedroom door, shaking her head at Sam and heading into his room instead. "I don't know what's going on," she expressed when Sam looked at her waiting for answers.

Tom heard a door shut and exhaled with relief, refocusing his attention on Sasha, speaking directly into her ear again. "Come on Sash—wake up."

Finally, she stiffened, movements stilling which let him know she was alert. He loosened his hold but didn't let go, waiting as she came back to herself. Sasha's chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath, completely confused while she took in her position and surroundings. Claustrophobic panic surged, his hold on her suffocating rather than a comfort. Wasn't aware of the distressed sound that came out when she pushed against him. Tom let her go quickly and she ripped herself out of bed, almost tripping because one of her feet was still caught in the sheets.

He surged forward to catch her but she caught herself. Put her hands up and shook her head at him. Tried to say ' _don't touch me'_ but ended up mouthing the word, _"No,"_ breathlessly instead. Tom stared at her, eyes wide and fearful, mouth agape, his own breathing labored from panic as he sat frozen, trying to process what the fuck had just happened. Sasha put a hand on her knee and tried to catch her breath, the other clutching at her chest. Her face was contorted in pain and after several tense seconds, she stumbled to the bathroom. The door closed behind her with a slam, Tom's eyes tracking her movements the entire time.

He couldn't move. Blinked several times trying to comprehend as he looked around the room at their sheets strewn all over the place. The lamp ripped clean out of the wall, violently enough to pull the nightstand forward with it. A glass of water spilled on the carpet. Phone torn from its charger.

In complete despair, Tom squeezed his eyes closed. This had to stop. That was the worst he'd ever seen it. Whatever _it_ was, wasn't getting better—only worse. At a loss, he picked up his phone and sent a text.

_Did something happen in Panama that I need to know about? Man to man._

Hadn't expected a reply until morning, but when his phone vibrated less than a minute later, the surprise had him snatching it quickly to read the response.

_Lot of bad shit to unpack… not really sure how to do it myself. Can't help you. Sorry Sir._

Tom swallowed, clenched his jaw. Mind running wild with scenarios that could explain the dreams. The regular nightmares he could handle had them too himself sometimes. Just bad memories that came up, but it was the night terrors that loomed insidiously and un-addressed. Was it something specific, or rather a culmination of stressors finally getting the best of her? It had to do with Asia, he knew that. Something about the village and the bodies. But she'd told him that already on the James, so if that was it, why didn't she talk about it. Maybe it was guilt over James manifesting itself, she'd never mentioned it again, and he was convinced, had he not intervened that night, she would have ignored it completely in favor of this self-destructive path.

_You know where I am if you need to talk._

Officially stonewalled. Whatever had happened, Danny wasn't going to breathe a word of it. Not to him, at least. Tom put the phone down intending to clean up the sheets and their room, but he left first to check in on Ashely and Sam. His heart breaking just that little bit more over their concern when he'd explained what Ashley had heard. Hurting over the fact that Sasha was still so hellbent on running that she couldn't see what was really going on here.

After changing their sheets, Tom went to her. The room billowed with steam when the temperature changed, all the glass surfaces fogging up with condensation as he entered. His heart fell to the pit of his stomach. Sasha was huddled in the corner of the shower fully clothed still. Her eyes were closed, knees drawn up to her chest, hands clutched together resting near her throat as if she were trying to hold herself together. The exposed skin of her arms was covered in goosebumps and angry red marks. Like she'd scratched it raw to the point of bleeding and she was shivering violently.

It felt his insides had been dumped on ice.

Approaching slowly, he stopped on the other side of the glass—unsure if she even knew he was there. He opened the door gently and tested the water, turning it up to use the last of the hot water, making sure it wouldn't burn her, heart aching miserably. He wanted so badly to climb in and hold her but knew by now that it didn't help. It just exacerbated the lingering effects of her dreams. Made her feel trapped and claustrophobic. Tom closed the door again softly and sank down, his back resting against the glass.

 _"Sash_ we–"

"Tom. I can't do this," she cut him off. Voice sounding meek even to her own ears.

He clenched his eyes shut again. Scrubbed frustrated hands over his face—like the movement could somehow cast out the pain in his chest. "Baby, I can't help you if you won't talk," he implored.

"I just—It was just a dream. It's nothing, just leave it alone." Repeated more harshly than she'd really intended.

"Sash you're breaking my heart with this!" a proclamation that had ripped out unintended, his voice strained—hadn't meant to get so emotional, but he couldn't take anymore. All he wanted to do was help her. Tom heard the shaky breath, the one that let him know she was on the verge of hyperventilating.

"I am begging you please—I can't do this right now. _Please just stop,_ " her voice cracked, broken, and stilted by rapid concurrent breaths as she fought for air.

Tom winced, dragging his hands down to cover his mouth hopelessly as his elbows rested on his knees. Listened for a few more torturous seconds, caught between pushing her past her breaking point just to get it out of her, or letting it go unsaid, _again_. For the life of him, he caved. He couldn't do it. He didn't have it in him right now to be that cruel.

"Okay—you're okay—breathe," he instructed brokenly. Every sound was like a drill to his teeth. Like he was walking on glass and each spasm of her chest a fresh shard tearing through his flesh. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Didn't know if he could sit there and listen and not be able to reach her. To say he felt helpless was an understatement of immense proportions. Knew the next thing she'd ask was for him to leave so she could put her mask on in private, build up those walls and then act like none of this happened. But he couldn't do that anymore either. Not when it was this bad.

"Just go back to sleep. I'll be fine," she uttered quickly between breaths, and it caused a physical depression of his chest, the air exhaling loudly through his nose as he clamped his lips into a harsh line. Eyes still shut firm as his worried hands tried to occupy themselves by scrubbing through his hair again. The same hands that she wouldn't let touch her.

"No." He heard the sound of distress break as it left her lips—another wrench to his gut.

" _Tom_ —"

"I'm not leaving. I won't force you to talk to me—but I can't leave you like this. You are so far from fine Sash," he implored with conviction. Trailing off because he didn't need to voice the cliché to get his message across. He pulled a hand over his mouth again, shaking his head from side to side in desperation. He felt like a child. Like a lost, scared child—Jed Chandler had taught him many things in life, but possibly the most important was that there are two kinds of pain.

Pain you can control, even withstand. The kind of pain that enemies inflict as torture, or the kind you bring upon yourself through actions. Expected, though miserable, nonetheless. Like guilt over a decision, a what-if. And the other kind. The kind that brings a man to his knees. That was the pain Jed Chandler cautioned his son to understand and look out for. The pain that if leveraged in the right conditions, could mean the difference between life and death. Between winning or losing a war.

It had taken him seventeen years and the end of the world since that conversation to fully comprehend—but now he did. There were very few instances that brought Tom Chandler to his knees, sent his resolve toppling like a deck of stacked cards. In some ways, not even Darien's death had stopped him, wretched and costly as it was. He'd still pressed on. Had gambled with her life and lost... but when his kids had been taken, when he'd heard his daughters' frantic cries on the other end of that line—he'd crumbled. Like putty in Shaw's hands. She'd managed to break him—exploited the right pain.

 _This_ Tom realized, sitting here powerless as Sasha fell apart in front of his very eyes—as she shut him out and refused any kind of help—was a new and insidious type of torture he hadn't yet endured. A kind that had snuck up on him over months rather than coming in one cataclysmic event. And he wasn't so sure that it wouldn't send him crumbling if it carried on.

Sasha drew in another shaky breath, trying to quell the panic in her body, couldn't understand why he wouldn't just do as she asked. Wanted him gone so he didn't have to be hurt. She couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't deal with how trapped she was. With what she'd done. Why she'd chosen to mess everything up. All she knew was at this precise moment—she was incapable—and she'd never been incapable in her life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Emotionally heavy, PTSD & Anxiety triggers. Graphic depictions of decomposition.

**Saturday, August 27** **th,** **2016** — **Mount Pleasant, South Carolina**

Sasha was stood in the kitchen; she could faintly see Tom and Sam in the distance through the French doors that lead onto the back porch. They were sitting at the end of the dock in camping chairs, fishing poles in hand. And while the sight of it should have made her happy, she couldn't dispel the cold stoicism that had settled itself in her heart since returning.

A lot had changed while she'd been living in a capsule in Panama. A scientist had unlocked the secret to stabilizing a spreadable cure within plant-based insects in early June. Their first yield of crops had been harvested; there was a general sense of progress and prosperity among the country again. Most of the rioting had stopped. Presidente Arias was successfully turning the tide on the last of the rebels, and Canada had come into the fold. Within the next sixty days, they'd have enough fuel to end the rolling blackouts across the country, enough fuel to begin rebuilding a fleet. It was a historic agreement that united the Northern and Southern America's right down to the tip of Columbia. Some 50 million-plus survivors all working towards the same goal. They were winning—she should be happy. Yet for all of their victories, she'd never been more lost. Never felt like such a fraud, or so disconnected. Like she was an imposter in her own life.

"Why don't you go grab the Steaks, and we can start cooking so they have something to eat when they get back?" Sasha asked, pulling out the cutting board and some seasoning. Ashely headed out toward the cooler that was still sitting in the bed of Tom's truck. She climbed up only to realize that she hadn't closed the lid the night before fully.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath— he would be so mad at her—could hear him reminding her to push it down all the way because it was overstuffed, and the generators wouldn't cool the fridge for at least 24 hours. He hadn't stopped talking about how lucky they were to have the meat, all thanks to a local farmer who'd recognized him and offered it; the cure had arrived just in time to save his wife. Ashley scrunched her nose in disgust at the smell coming from it as she picked it up. Maybe Sasha could salvage something or help her hide the evidence, at least.

"Sasha, I messed up," she called as she walked back into the kitchen, struggling to carry its weight.

"What's wrong?" Sasha immediately came over to help her put it on the island counter. The second she smelled it, she felt her throat close up, shook her head, immediately feeling a wave of dread flood her system. _That smell._

"I forgot to close it last night, and everything's gone bad," Ashley started, pulling items out to get at the meat but stopped quickly when she looked at Sasha, concern immediately marring her young face as she took in her expression. Something was really wrong. All the color had drained from her cheeks, and her eyes were wide. Sasha could feel her heart rate increasing, her chest had seized, and she struggled to expand it to breathe. She just kept smelling it all around her. She couldn't get rid of it.

_The bodies._

"Sasha, are you okay?" Ashley asked, coming around the counter. Sasha shook her head, backing away—not really even sure where she was anymore, her eyes were open, but they weren't seeing. Not her kitchen at least—they were seeing bodies, floating, and baked in the sun.

_She couldn't breathe._

She cleared her throat in an attempt to get it to open up, the sound strangled and strange even to her own ears. "I'm... fi…" she tried, grasping at her chest as pain shot through it like a spear. It went through her extremities, and she vaguely wondered if she was having a heart attack.

"Sasha!" Ashley repeated panicked, grabbing onto her arm. "What's wrong?" she tried.

Her whole body was seizing on her—she couldn't hold herself up. Dropped to her knees. "I ca… I can't… bre… breathe," she stuttered out, gasping harder and letting out a sound of pain in-between struggling for air. Her hand was clawing at her throat, the other shaking and braced on the floor as she hyperventilated on her knees. The corners of her vision blurred, the blood pulsing through her veins rang in her ears—all she could hear was the sound of sloshing, panicked breaths, bodies—another noise of pain.

"I'll get Dad!" Ashley said frantically, flying out of the kitchen, the wood of the back door protesting at how aggressively she'd burst through it. She took off, sprinting down the path towards the dock as fast as she could. 

"DAD!" his head snapped up the second he heard it, his heart immediately lurching and ice flooding his veins. Itchy and uncomfortable.

"Ashley?!" he looked in the direction of her voice, she sounded terrified. It hadn't been a yell, it had been a scream. A million scenarios ran through his head, was she hurt? Did someone break-in? Where was Sasha? "Sam!" he said earnestly, gesturing for his son to drop what he was doing and follow him immediately. He did as he was told, their fishing poles clattering to the deck loudly. 

"What's wrong!?" he bellowed, running with Sam in the direction of her voice, the wood of the deck under their feet thundered and flexed as he blazed a trail down it.

"It's Sasha!" he could see her now, about a hundred feet away from him coming down the sloped hill, his mouth went dry.

"What happened?" they continued to run towards each other. She was panting hard, out of breath from the panic, and how fast she'd run when they reached each other.

"I don't know, but she can't breathe!" she was almost crying as she spoke, they were feet from colliding. He held out his hands, ready to catch her momentum as she crashed into him, picked her up easily as he continued toward the house, made sure to hold her weight as he set her down. She stumbled slightly—the rapid change of direction, sending her off balance.

Tom held her arm firmly to keep her upright, unable to control the frantic urgency from his voice as he asked her, "What do you mean!?"

" _I don't know_!" she repeated hysterically, "She was fine, and then she grabbed her chest, and said she couldn't breathe!" He dropped her arm, accepting that he needed to go faster, and there was no way they could keep up with him. He sped up, his hip and leg protesting every impact his foot made with the solid ground, but he ignored it. Nearly ripped the door off its hinges when he reached it.

"Sasha!?"

Used the counter to stop his momentum when he flew into the kitchen, his eyes searching wildly for her until they settled on her figure. She was curled in a fetal position on the ground, hyperventilating hard. He felt his heart stop for several beats as his brain caught up, and he moved quickly, kneeling behind her. "It's okay," he said calmly, reaching out to turn her. She was ridged, her hands locked, and fingers stuck in a contorted position.

Ashley and Sam made it through the door, another loud smash as they burst through it and appeared in his peripheral. Their faces panicked and worried, Sam's eyes went wide, and he grabbed Ashely because he was scared. "What's wrong with her hands?" he asked, his lip already quirking downward in the beginning of tears—his voice showing it.

Sasha's breathing came in short, panicked gasps. 

"Dad?" Ashely's voice trembled. 

It was then that Tom noticed it, the horrible smell. His face contorted in disgust as he looked around for the source, it smelled like rotting meat. His subconscious supplied him the connection. ' _The bodies, in the sun… sometimes I think I can still smell it on me.'_ His eyes found the cooler, sitting open on the counter, and he squeezed them closed briefly in frustration. One of the kids hadn't closed it, and the meat had spoiled. Sasha was having a panic attack because it smelled like rotting flesh.

"Ashley—the cooler! Get rid of it," he snapped. Ashley had started crying as she clung to Sam, unsure of what was going on. If Sasha was dying, having a heart attack. When she didn't move fast enough, he repeated it. "Ashely, now!" It snapped her out of her stupor, and she let go of Sam, rushing to follow his instructions and take it outside.

"Sam, I want you to go outside with your sister. Wait in the car, listen to the radio, it's going to be fine, but I need you to wait there for me," he instructed. Rubbing Sasha's arm calmly as she continued to hyperventilate, he needed them in there in case he couldn't bring her out of it, and he needed to take her to the recently recommissioned base for help. Sam sniffed and nodded, following his instructions.

Tom turned his full attention back to Sasha, sitting himself down properly on the floor, he lifted her, so she was settled between his legs, her back to his chest. "I need you to listen to me," he said calmly, placing a hand on her heart so he could feel its pace—much too rapid—the other rubbing her arm up and down in slow, comforting motions. "You're breathing too fast, we need to slow that down," he instructed. "Breathe with me, okay?"

Sasha sputtered and gasped, struggling for air. "Shhh, it's okay. Slow it down, in and out," he exaggerated his breathing so she could feel it against her back. Did this for a few moments until he felt and heard her start to adjust to try and match his pace. "Good. It's okay, alright? You're having a panic attack." She inhaled sharply, a sob managing to break through her hyperventilated breathing. "Slow down," he repeated calmly. Felt her fighting to move to gain purchase over her body that had locked up on her.

"H…hands" she struggled out. Tom grabbed one of them, fitting it easily in his larger palm, and rubbed it reassuringly.

"I know, they're all cramped up. It's okay. It's because you've been breathing too fast for too long, and that's why we need to slow it down." Another sob, followed by uneven, labored gasps. "Shhh, I'm here. It's okay. We've done this before, remember?" he spoke softly into her ear. He felt her nod stiffly. She did remember, only she'd never lost control of her entire body this way. Never been locked up, never felt pain this intensely through her entire system to the point she was convinced she was dying.

"Let it pass, you're okay," he let go of her arm and started stroking her head, smoothing her hair away from her face as he tucked her under his chin. "Just keep breathing slow." They stayed that way while the pain passed, and numbness subsided. Her fingers and hands started to relax again, and she found she could move them. Breathing returning to a normal level, punctuated only with hiccups. Her body began to shake, quite violently, as the chemical buildup of stress worked itself out.

After fifteen minutes or so, Tom asked, "Can you walk?" 

Her voice was pitchy, shaky and it made her cringe. "I think so." 

"Let's go lie down."

She merely nodded in response, twitching as her body hiccupped again. Felt him scoot back and heard the protest slightly as he stood. That plate was giving him hell from the run, something he'd have to bring up with his physical therapist. Once he was up and steady, Tom held his hands out to her hoisting her off the floor. Her legs were a little shaky, the last of the numbness making them stiff, and Sahsa grabbed his arm to steady herself. 

"You good?"

She sniffed. "Mmm-Hmm."

Tom's hands hovered at her waist as he guided her to the bedroom, pulled back the covers for her once they were there. She slipped in gratefully after shrugging off her shoes, completely physically and mentally exhausted. Grabbed his pillow and hugged it to her while he tucked the blankets around her and fixed her hair.

"I need to go check on Ashley and Sam, let them know you're okay—they were pretty scared," he explained softly. "You'll be alright?" Sasha nodded, her body hiccupping again. Tom bent down and dropped a kiss at her temple. "I won't be long."

As soon as Tom closed the door, he dropped the act. Shoulders physically sagging as he clamped his eyes shut and processed what had just happened. She couldn't keep going like this. They couldn't. It was making her sick, and he could no longer stand by as the passive observer. He was prepared to have her committed if that's what it was going to take to get her to deal with it. Determined that he no longer cared if she hated him for it, all that mattered was her getting the help she so clearly needed.

* * *

The kids immediately got out when they saw him step onto the porch, rushing over. "What happened? Is she okay?"

He opened his arms for a hug, which they both gladly accepted. "She's okay, come on, we'll talk about it inside," he said, squeezing both of their shoulders and steering them to the living room. They settled on the couches, could tell they were dying for answers by the looks on their faces. "She had a panic attack. It happens sometimes, and it looks scary, but it's not life-threatening. She just needed some help to calm down—"

"It was the smell, wasn't it?" Ashley interjected quickly. Tom sighed, his chin tucking down the way it did when he didn't want to admit something but had no choice. Her mouth quirked downward again and trembled, could tell she was about to cry. It was the confirmation she needed, and the guilt blossomed. "It was my fault," her voice emotional and fraught and guilt-ridden. 

Tom shook his head, "No, it's no-one's fault. You couldn't have known. Sasha didn't know—sometimes things happen that are outside of our control, this was one of them," he soothed immediately.

She was pouting, eyes watery, and arms crossed tightly over herself, "So, you're not mad at me?" Tom furrowed his brows with concern. Was he really that scary to his own kids? Did she really think he was going to punish her for a simple, yet unfortunate mistake?

"No, of course not. You didn't do it on purpose, it was an accident. Accidents happen," he assured her.

"And Sasha? Is she mad?" she continued, still trying to hold back tears, face was red from the effort.

" _No_ —not at all," he clarified firmly.

"Can I go see her?" she sounded unconvinced, wanted to check for herself.

Tom hesitated slightly, trying to figure out how much to disclose. "Not right now sweetheart, she's resting." He gave her a sympathetic expression.

"But I thought you said she was okay?" Sam piped up. Tom shifted his gaze over to his son, trying to hide his exasperation at calling him out and not accepting the answer at face value. He knew Sasha, and he knew she'd be mortified that the kids had seen, not that it was anything to be embarrassed about. This just wasn't the type of thing you wanted anyone to see.

"She is but she's tired, and she's a little sad right now buddy." Sam appeared dejected and looked over at his sister, silently requesting her input. Wanting her to back him up and demand that they be allowed to see for themselves. Ashley looked between them both, chewing on her lip before she put her arm around Sam.

"It's okay—we can make her something that will cheer her up."

Tom's heart clenched over how much he saw Darien in her, how Ashley had in some respects been forced to become Sam's mother while he'd been occupied with competing priorities. How she knew how to comfort Sam better than him at this point. It made him feel like a failure. "That's a great idea. She'd love that," Tom encouraged, voice betraying the stoicism he was so badly trying to portray.

Sam looked between them and nodded. "Okay."

Tom sighed and looked at them both, standing to rub his son's hair in a comforting gesture. "Why don't you guys work on that for a bit, okay? I need to go take care of Sasha. You can knock on the door if you need me, I'll come down and make you some dinner soon," he instructed, pinching Ashley's cheek and smiling at her in an attempt to cheer her up.

* * *

Sasha hadn't moved at all in the time he'd been gone, barely lifted her head when he entered. Instead, she was vacantly staring into the distance, his pillow the only thing she clung to in the center of the bed. The room was still dim. They hadn't opened the curtains yet though the sun seeped through the cracks casting shadows across the floor and the bed. Tiny particles of dust floated and danced as it highlighted them. He kicked off his shoes.

"Hey," his tone was soft, tender.

"Are they okay?" It was timid and so unlike her usual assured and direct tone. Tom settled in the bed next to her, propping himself up on his elbow as he faced her—hated how much she didn't look like herself, none of the spark behind her eyes, nothing but apathy. Like the lights were on, but no one was really home.

"They're fine but they're worried about you," he told her, his fingers finding purchase in her hair again caressing her temple with the pad of his thumb, the warmth of his skin soothing her.

"I'm sorry they had to—" she started, shaking her head.

"No—there's nothing to be sorry for," he admonished. Her eyes fell, and she exhaled heavily, shaking her head slightly.

"The smell, Tom…" she inhaled sharply, not quite able to finish the sentence without her gag reflex attacking her. His thumb moved to rub her cheek, gentle back and forth motions across the smooth, cool skin.

"I remember, you said something in China?" he inquired quietly. She nodded, closing her eyes to try and block out the memories. He hesitated for a moment, considering how best to proceed, his gut churning with nerves—apprehension of how this was about to play out.

"I know you don't want to talk about it," he started cautiously, expecting her to immediately clam up the way she did every time this subject came up, "but you can't keep ignoring this anymore. I am scared for you, Sasha. _I love you_ , and you need help. It doesn't have to be me. I will find you the best damn phycologist left in the States—but you _have_ to face this," he all but begged quietly, his entire body imploring her to listen. She could see how much she was hurting him in his eyes—it was like a lead pit in her stomach. Sasha bit the inside of her cheeks, looking his face up and down silently for several moments. Long enough that To,m thought she was simply going to ignore him like she always did when he asked her about this. The pain that was throbbing in his chest, proverbially pulling him to his knees—he was at his limit. Couldn't take seeing her like this anymore. To his surprise, she started to speak, not more than a whisper.

"It was the village."

He remembered that part from their talk on the James. Remembered she'd gone to ground there where the population was less dense – that she'd been forced to leave when someone got sick, and there were bodies.

"I think it was… September? Or the end of July?" she rolled slightly to rest more on her back instead of her side, peered up at the ceiling. "I'd already been there for close to two months. We had a good system, kept to ourselves. Split off into groups, gathered supplies. Shared them." He waited patiently for her to continue, afraid that if he spoke, she'd stop, didn't dare move. "Someone must have missed a body because they got sick—exposed us. Within a few days over ten had the symptoms." She sniffed, fighting to keep her face neutral. "I barricaded myself in the hut. I only had a weeks' worth of food—less water than that. Rationed it out and waited for them to die off," she closed her eyes again, jaw twitching like it did when she was getting overwhelmed. Despite himself, Tom reached out to rub her upper arm reassuringly as she breathed, and thankfully, she didn't brush him away this time. 

"The rest started to get desperate after three weeks—risked leaving the huts to get food and find water—tried to take mine." She pursed her lips. Nostrils flared slightly as she remembered the absolute horror she'd felt as she heard someone trying to break in one night. "They all got sick. Every one of them. More than thirty people, Tom." Her breath hitched. "They were rabid at the end. The crying—I didn't have enough bullets to put them out of their misery, so I listened to it. _For weeks._ It took them weeks to die, and I pretended I was already dead so they wouldn't come in." Her body started to tremble again—he felt it. Could see it. Tom swallowed thickly.

"It finally went quiet, about a month after the first person. I didn't have anything left, was just catching rainwater to live, ate bugs if they came by—the monsoons—they uh—they washed some of the bodies… out of the huts," her voice became strangled as she tried to stop herself from gagging again.

"Hey," he tried to soothe, palming her forehead and stroking it. Sasha shook her head sharply. Now that she was finally getting it out, it was like she couldn't stop. It was like a battering ram inside of her, begging her to break free. To have someone else know what she'd done. What she'd lived through. Begging to be acknowledged and recognized though she wanted to ignore it.

"I had a gas mask and a suit I'd used to make it out of the city— knew I had to move, or I'd starve but when I went outside, they were _everywhere_. The whole field was flooded with bodies." Her face contorted in pain. Tom blinked a few times. He knew what water did to decomposing corpses, how they bloated beyond recognition, the putrid stench of the swollen rotten flesh. The body fluids. He felt sick, sick to his stomach. His heart clenched tightly, and the pace of his breathing evenly increased as he listened for what he knew was coming. As he pictured it.

"I couldn't do it. I went back inside, and I picked up my gun." The implication of her words punching him, his mind supplying other parts of the conversation they'd had. The part where she admitted she almost gave up but heard about the ship and thought he was alive and working on a cure. The only reason she'd decided to keep going. "If I hadn't decided to check the radio, one last time—if I hadn't heard about your ship." She chanced a look at him then. His eyes were brimming with tears as he listened to her, she looked away painfully—she couldn't handle it. Had enough torment, is she watched him looking at her like that, she wouldn't be able to stuff it back in, and she simply refused to go there.

"Took me three more days, but I worked up the courage. I got myself out, went South… but I couldn't take it off because it wasn't safe." She stopped. The images bombarding her again, how there'd been a body right below her steps. The first one she'd had to wade through. How the disintegrated remains had turned to soup in the water—the smell so putrid, the sight so horrific that she'd gagged in her mask but couldn't take it off or she'd die. How the water was shoulder deep, and she'd been terrified it would leak. That she'd lose her footing and be submerged. That she'd drown by sucking a rotten corpse into her lungs. Couldn't quite believe that she'd spent over an hour wading through flooded remains with vomit in her re-breather to survive. That she'd wanted it that badly— _life_. That she hadn't picked a bullet instead, and all because the idea that he was still alive gave her some kind of hope that almost bordered on religious.

How when she'd finally made it out, the sun had baked it. Lumps dried all over her suit. How she hadn't been able to take it off until she was sure she wouldn't encounter any more bodies. She'd trekked for three days that way before she hit the outskirts of the city. Before she could break into a house with some water and cleaning supplies and had scrubbed her skin raw to the point of bleeding. Her expression contorted into pure pain again. She was so tired of reliving the memories over and over—would give anything just to make it stop. "I can't get the smell off me," she stuttered out, bringing a hand up to cover her face.

Tom pulled her to him and held her tightly. What could he possibly say? How could he possibly respond? He knew there was nothing. Nothing that could make what she'd been through right. He couldn't take it away for her. It wasn't like blame, it wasn't like guilt—there was nothing to be said about it, no different perspective to give. It was merely the reality of what she'd had to do to survive, and she'd been all alone with it for years. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart aching painfully. She knew every crevice of his despair, the things that kept him up at night, every failure, the guilt, Baltimore, Darien, his Father, Rachel, Shaw, Greece. Knew his troubles when they caught up to him and eased them away with a simple kiss, or by offering an ear—she was there for him, and he'd barely even scratched the surface with her. But not because he didn't want to be, because she simply wouldn't let him.

She was running, _still_.

"You don't have to do this alone anymore," he told her tightly. The only thing that felt right to say. Alarm bells rang in her head. She kept putting tape on all the cracks, and it wasn't working anymore. She wasn't in control of herself. She didn't want all her ugly on the table. She didn't want to accept that she was lesser when she had always been strong. Didn't want to need help because she kept all her deepest emotions to herself, and that was her identity. Her entire purpose was to be iron-willed enough to get through anything, _alone_. That's it. That's all that had driven her for her entire life because relying on herself rendered her invincible.

Sasha wrenched herself free of his grasp, shaking her head as she inhaled, choosing defiance instead. Choosing strength. She didn't need this. She needed to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and it would work itself out like it always did—she'd made it this far had she not? And now that he knew, he could let it go. She wouldn't have to talk about Panama. He'd chalk it all up to Asia and could stop pestering her silently with that wounded expression he wore every time she shut him out. Sasha pulled roughly at the sheets to get out and pace. Tom stood slowly, hands clenched into fists, expression tight and purposefully stoic, though his eyes gave him away as they tracked her. His eyes that were torturously pained because he could see what she was doing. Building walls again, shutting him out.

"Well, now you know. It's just a bad memory, I don't know why it won't stop." Her tone was cold. Detached. As if they'd just been talking about something as mundane as the weather.

"Maybe because you keep shutting it out and pretending you're fine." A statement, not a question. Tom's eyes had her pinned. His voice so calm that it set her alight because she wanted to fight, not listen.

"What more am I supposed to do? It happened—I can't change it. I'm not special, everyone had to do something they didn't like—the world carries on!" 

"Feel it instead of pushing it away. Admit that you're not okay? Stop running from everything that hurts?" He responded quietly—the questions rhetorical though illustrating the point effectively enough.

Sasha stared at him incredulously and scoffed. Her mouth hanging open as she shook her head in shock that he was actually calling her out. Nostrils flaring, she furiously tried to hold back the tears stinging at her eyes. Tom stepped closer, approaching her from the other side of the bed, controlled, slow, and towering. His breath came a little faster. The adrenaline kicking up in his system because he could see it—could see that he was about to break her. And this time—this time he wasn't going to stop. He was going to push her over the edge and catch her because he was convinced it was what needed to be done.

Something in his expression caused chills to run down her spine, and panic to rise in the pit of her stomach. She'd never quite seen this particular look before. Equally terrifying, as it was loving—colored with a certain hint of despair that didn't quite fit the situation. She drew herself straighter, eyes fluttering as she looked him up and down—his entire body an expression of trepidation.

"You think I can't see you. That I haven't figured you out yet—but you're wrong," he began. So soft, and so quiet she almost held her breath to make sure she'd heard him correctly. A warning flashed in her eyes to back off—not to say something he couldn't take back. Tom saw it, swallowed, worked his jaw, and carried on anyway.

"You think I don't know that you haven't felt safe since you were twelve—" the betrayed look and harsh, _"Stop it!"_ she uttered, letting him know he was hurting her. "That you feel like you weren't good enough, and that's why your father never stopped drinking. You've felt abandoned ever since." He paused for a moment. The burning guilt at the expression she wore almost breaking his resolve. Sasha's lips quivered, cast downward as she looked at him with an expression of devastation. With eyes full of the tears she was valiantly holding back, he could see the betrayal in her eyes. Tom hated it. It burned him to his core. 

"You can't trust anyone because they let you down, so you're convinced being alone is the only way to protect yourself." He stepped closer to her, where she stood rooted to the spot, arms clamped rigidly at her sides, hands clenched though he could still see them shaking. "You ignore anything that hurts you. Won't acknowledge it until you can't push it away anymore, and even then, it's only so you can shut it out and go back to pretending it doesn't affect you." She was clenching her jaw so hard the nerves in her teeth started to ache. Had progressed to refusing to make eye contact with him, staring at anything she could to maintain control. The rug, the vanity, the dust swirling in the cracks of sunlight—anything but him.

Tom's hand reached slowly for her jaw, ignoring how she tried to push it away and he bought his other to mirror it on the other side. Forced her to look at him. His eyes were glassy as they bore into hers. "The man you were sleeping with betrayed you, and you had to kill him, Sasha. You cried for less than a day and never spoke of it again. Tried to starve yourself and you act like that never even happened!" She tried to jerk herself out of his grasp, some kind of noise sticking at the back of her throat that she refused to let free. Tom held her tighter, not letting her go. His heart beating fast enough for him to feel it in his throat. Could hear ringing in his ears for how cruel he felt. "You married a man who could never push you because it was safe. Because you only had to share the pieces you like." She sucked on her cheeks to stop the haggard sob from coming out. Wouldn't grant him the satisfaction of winning.

"You'll be there for anyone that needs you but can't accept the same in return. I know something happened in Panama, and it is eating you alive—" his breath caught, and his eyes fluttered slightly, the moisture perilously close to spilling over his lashes, "and then there's me." Sasha winced, and her tears started to fall, casting heavy warm tracks down her cheeks in broken silence. They were warm as they hit his thumbs. Tom's voice was strangled as he struggled with his guilt. "You lay right next to me suffering in silence and think I can't hear you drowning—but you won't trust me because I'm the only person who's ever gotten close and I left you. I abandoned you when you needed me. I broke you, and all I did was reinforce everything you've believed since you were twelve—"

Rage flashed white-hot, and she pushed at his forearms again. Silencing him because she couldn't take it anymore. "What the hell do you want from me!?" A constricted yell that burst from her soul, anguished and angry. Louder than it should have been. Probably loud enough to carry downstairs. Tom's hands squeezed the back of her head slightly as he implored her.

" _That_ Sasha! I want you to feel and stop running! I want you to tell me you're in pain, not that you're fine! I want you to stop pretending. Stop acting like you don't need my help because you do!"

Her chest was heaving and she finally managed to break free of his hold—tried to put space between them, but he refused. Grabbed her shoulders instead, and drew her closer again, forcing her against his chest and into his arms. Sasha pushed against him with all the strength she had left.

 _"Let go!"_ She cried. Beside herself that she'd barely been able to push him off balance.

"No," he told her defiantly.

The rage it threw her into was blinding, and she launched a full-on attack. Twisted herself and drew an elbow to deliver a blow to his solar plexus, but he was too quick for that—a move he'd taught her anyway. If she were in a better state of mind, she would have remembered that. The muscles in his arms strained as he wrangled her arms to her sides—she made a noise of frustration that turned into an angered sob because he was too strong for her to get away.

" _Stop!_ " she tried again, kicked her legs up and out, attempting to use her body weight to topple them both, but he managed to counterbalance it.

" _No._ Hit me if you want—if that's what you need but I'm not letting go. If you're angry, then be angry. If you're lost, be lost. Cry if you need it, scream if it helps—I don't care, just stop pretending! You don't need to hide from me anymore Sasha. _I love you,_ I am here for you," he implored passionately. Tom felt the moment she shattered. Felt and heard it. Big, heaving anguished cries—uncontrolled as she finally let them go, as she finally stopped fighting and went limp in his arms.

It was horrible.

They were raw and gut-wrenching sounds. Tormented, harrowed howls. A sound he'd never heard pass her lips before. The fraught tension broke, the air he'd been struggling to breathe for months started to flow easier—though painful as it was to hear, somehow it was a relief – something had to give, and while he hated every second of it, hated what he'd done to get it—this was pain he could withstand. The first kind. Pain that he could heal, that they could survive.

"I've got you," he said firmly, squeezing her tighter from behind, following her body as it sank to the floor.

* * *

Ashley looked over at Sam with a solemn expression on her face; they could hear Sasha's cries downstairs, where they sat on the sofa. Her lips quirked downward again and started wobbling. She felt so guilty. If she'd just listened, none of this would have happened. Sam put the card they were making down—crawled over to his sister and clung to her, burying his head in her side.

"I don't think she's okay," he mumbled, the sound reminding him of how they had cried when their mom and grandpa had died. "Did her Mom die too?" 

Ashley shook her head—she didn't have any answers. "I don't know Sam. Something really bad must have happened," she answered quietly, wrapping her arms around him and trying to give comfort and quell her own fear at the same time. "Don't worry, Dad will fix it," she told him, for his sake as much as her own.

* * *

Sasha's hands grabbed desperately at his forearm, vaguely aware that the guttural sounds were coming from her. The force of her sorrow so heavy she thought she was going to be sick. Every piece of her body hurt, and she found herself curling up in an attempt to relieve it, face buried in the stupid expensive rug she'd picked out, but it didn't work. It felt like something was trying to claw its way out through her sobs. Could feel Tom holding her as best he could from her side, one arm wrapped low on her stomach, the other across her shoulder and chest, his hand holding her upper arm tightly as he caught her fall.

She felt his hot breath at her ear, " _I'm sorry_ —I'm sorry that I helped do this to you. More than you'll ever know. I'm sorry that I was a coward, but I will never do that to you again. You can trust me."

She pulled herself upright and turned—wrapped her arms around his torso, climbed into his lap, and clung to him instead, her head resting on his shoulder as she cried brokenly like a child. Tom's hand came up to cradle her temple, holding her head to him as his other arm embraced her back, rubbing in large soothing movements.

"You're safe now, I've got you."

It was everything she'd needed to hear—everything she'd never be capable of saying herself. The conflicting paradox that was her entire life. It was her biggest secret, the one she buried deep and labeled as weakness, a broken fantasy that simply didn't exist. The yearning hope that she'd find someone who could see her _,_ and she wouldn't have to be alone anymore because they understood what it cost. Understood that she was terrified of trusting someone intimately because it would destroy her to be betrayed, and they would keep her _safe_.

She wasn't alone. Not anymore. 


	9. Chapter 9

At some point, he'd managed to corral her into the bed and off the floor. Settled them both in a more comfortable position until she'd finally cried herself into exhaustion and fallen asleep. Tom hadn't moved since. He couldn't; didn't want to leave her alone, even as she slept. He was sure an hour, maybe more had passed, the lack of light peeking through the curtains alluding to that fact. He could smell food downstairs. Ashely had taken care of making dinner for herself, and for Sam—it made him feel like a failure. The day they should have spent enjoying each other's company, fishing on the dock, grilling at dinner, and hanging out by the fire, had ended up like this. With his daughter, once again taking care of her brother, because something else had taken priority. Sasha, at her lowest point. And he with the insurmountable knowledge that he should have stopped this sooner.

He'd been too scared of forcing the issue, afraid of pushing her away or of her simply leaving because that's what she did when things got too hard when in hindsight, all the signs were there—he'd just chosen to ignore them. Chosen to believe that she would figure it out before it got this far. Like she had every other time. But everyone had a limit, she was not invincible, and he would have done well to remember it. A soft knock on the door caught his attention, and he cringed internally because there was no way he'd be able to detangle himself without waking her. He fought the indecision for a moment more before he called out quietly. With any luck, if they were careful, she was exhausted enough to sleep through it.

"You can come in."

Two heads appeared around the door, their silhouettes all he could make out against the light from the hallway. It drew across the carpeted rug in front of him in a diagonal, long rectangle but stopped short of the bed, thankfully. He was sure the light would rouse her should it hit them. Tom rose his head up, enough for him to be visible, and gestured for them to be quiet and close the door.

He whispered to Ashely when she reached the bed, "What is it?"

"We made you both dinner if you're hungry."

"Thank you sweetie, why don't you put it in the microwave, and I'll come down and grab it later, okay?"

She chewed on her lip, eyes traveling over Sasha's form. Her back was to them, and all she could see was the top of her head and her dad's arms wrapped around her. "Is she really okay? We heard her crying." Her question was hesitant, voice so quiet he barely heard it himself.

Tom's brows drew together in a troubled expression, and he hesitated. "No, Ash. She's not—but she will be—she needs rest, I don't want her to wake up."

Ashley nodded solemnly, putting her arm around Sam. "I really am sorry–"

He shook his head to cut her off, "Not your fault—we'll talk later, okay?"

"Okay," she conceded, giving him one final sad look that tugged at his heart before they both exited the room as quietly as they'd come. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding once the soft click resonated. The knowledge that they'd overhead gnawed at his psyche, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He brought a hand up, absently stroking through her hair as he listened to the sound of her even breathing and waited for the feeling to surpass.

* * *

When Tom awoke, he found himself in the same position, his left arm long since numb. Sasha's head was still buried between his shoulder, the pillow, and his chest. One arm tucked tightly between them, and the other thrown over his waist, their legs entangled. Neither of them had moved at all. He exhaled sleepily, wincing at the fiery tingle that burned in his palms as they protested the lack of circulation. It was still dark, but there was a distinct blue tinge illuminating the room—if he had to guess, it was dawn. Realized he must have fallen asleep after the kids left and hadn't moved since, a summary that was quickly confirmed by his full bladder.

He moved his arm slowly, bringing his hand under her head to lift it so he could pull his left arm from under her. She stirred, and he dropped a kiss against her temple, _"shhh,"_ he soothed as he finished untangling their limbs.

He stretched as he got out, clenched, and unclenched his fist a few times while shaking his arm back to life as he headed to the bathroom, checked his watch to find it was 0548. She'd slept for almost twelve hours, and the relief that washed over him was palpable. This was the longest he'd seen her sleep uninterrupted, period. It was bound to do her some good.

* * *

It was a little past nine when Sasha woke. Tom had showered, checked on the kids, grabbed some food, and found Sam curled up with Ashely in the room she'd claimed as her own. He'd left them all to sleep and taken care of cleaning the cooler—thrown out the steaks and other tainted goods far from the property line. Somewhere he was sure she wouldn't smell them. Washed the offending item three times over with the bleach he'd found in her kitchen and transferred everything else to the fridge that had finally cooled.

Sasha rolled stiffly, acutely aware of the headache throbbing dully at the back of her skull. She rubbed at her eyes, trying to get them to focus—realized she was parched. The TV's sounds floated muffled from downstairs; the kids had found the movie collection and were putting it to good use. Slowly, she pushed herself upright, shoulders slumping in appreciation when she noticed the glass of water left for her on the bedside table. She reached over and took it, gulping greedily as she pulled open the drawer to grab the Advil she kept there. She did not miss the fact that her gun was missing, quickly deducing that he must have secured it and her heart fell as it sank in. Tom was that worried about her. He didn't trust her mental-state. All it takes is a moment, one moment of despair in the right circumstance - anyone in the service knew that. Most had lost friends like that. But perhaps harder to stomach was the hard cold reality that she couldn't fault him for it. If the situation were reversed, she would do exactly as he'd done.

It was like a physical weight as it washed over her. As she finally accepted that she couldn't do it anymore. She didn't know how to make the idea of getting out of bed make sense. Couldn't reconcile the thought that she was hungry with the overwhelming realization that she'd have to get up, go downstairs, decide what to eat, then actually eat it when she didn't care anymore. She sank back down, burying herself deeper into the bed, and pulled his pillow over her head.

Sasha heard the door creak open, though how much time had passed she did not know, listened to his footsteps on the wood, then muffled by the rug shortly followed by the depression of the mattress as he sat next to her. She'd moved, no longer hiding under the pillow, rather staring absently at nothing. Her thoughts a spiraling monologue of realizations that she was stuck.

"Hey," his voice was tender, and he reached out to push the hair from her face. Sasha chanced a look at him, her eyes finding his worried ones for a fraction of a second, and to her utter dismay – she found she couldn't speak because, to her complete relief, looking at him broke through the apathy. Suddenly, she could feel again, the hollow numbness that had been engulfing her was replaced—albeit with a deep grief, but it was better than the abyss.

And she found that she wanted nothing more than to tell him, to confess everything, but she guessed she wasn't done crying yet, because instead of the words, all that came out was a shaky breath. A breath that was very quickly followed by a sound that was closer to a squeak than anything else as her face crumpled, the tears falling in earnest again. Tom moved immediately, got up so he could draw back the duvet and climb in, and he positioned her easily at his chest. A hand came up to clutch at the back of her head.

"Okay," he reassured her, "It's alright."

Her fingers found purchase in the soft fabric of his t-shirt, and she clawed at it, trying to make him understand, " _Tom_."

The plea in her voice made him wince because she was asking the impossible of him, asking him to take it away. To make it stop. Felt the uncomfortable resurgence of memories held secret. Alone. Scared his kids might overhear and realize that he wasn't strong anymore. That he was lost. But he also knew one thing, the only way out of it, was through it. There was no other choice.

"I know it hurts, Sash—believe me, I know. But I promise you, we will figure this out, and you will feel better." Suddenly, she was sobbing again. Completely miserable and unable to stop, and in the back of her mind, she wondered if it ever would. Gun to her head, at this moment, she wouldn't be able to pinpoint precisely what she was crying about, rather all of it. Everything.

The whole fucking world had imploded, and she'd lost _everything_. She was scared. Lost. Didn't know what to do or who she was anymore.

_But he was with her._

Tom kissed her forehead, resting his cheek there as he listened. "You're gonna be okay, baby." He waited several moments before continuing. "You cry as much as you want and then we'll take a shower, and eat—and that's all we have to do today," he informed her gently, relieved to feel a jerky nod as she clung to him.

* * *

She hadn't left the room in three days. Only got out of bed because Tom forced her to. Made her shower, and made sure she ate. She felt useless, broken—irreparably so. Felt guilty that she had ruined their vacation, that he spent so much of his time holding her as she cried endlessly, sometimes silently, sometimes hysterically while she swirled in a strange purgatory of wanting to speak, yet finding herself incapable of forming the sentences. Time he should have been spending with his kids. Wouldn't be surprised if they hated her for it. In fact, she expected them to.

It was late; she'd gathered that because it was dark. Her phone had buzzed with countless messages, and she was yet to return a single one of them. Couldn't even muster the courage to look because it all felt like too much effort. Like an awful lot of people wanting her attention, and she wondered if she might simply ask him to do it for her. Yet if she did that, then everyone would know she'd fallen, and her pride wouldn't allow it, so the cycle continued.

Everything was within her reach, TV remote, laptop, the book she'd been reading before Panama—all there if she wanted it, yet she still didn't. Found sleeping a better way to pass the time, ruefully noting that she hadn't dreamt once since she'd told him. Ironic, some might say.

A quick knock on the door announced Tom's arrival before he emerged, a little shock registering on his face because Sasha was sitting up at least, leaning on the various pillows—some of which had been left on the floor, which indicated that she'd moved. Her eyes looked clearer, more alert, and more present than they had in days, which caused a soft smile to pull at his features, and though she didn't entirely return it, she did speak, _finally._

"Hi," breathed, barely more than a whisper and one of the most beautiful things he'd heard. Tom closed the door gently, stepping into the room and sitting to her left, facing her.

"Hi," he echoed, reaching out and taking one of her hands in his own as he studied her expression. She dropped her eyes in favor of exploring the veins on the back of his because she couldn't quite cope with the level of raw emotion on display. Still feeling unsure now that she'd been exposed, self-conscious though she knew he wasn't judging her in any way. More of that pride.

"The kids are asking after you," she could hear the hesitation in his voice, the uncertainty on whether she wanted to talk or not, and it colored her shocked. Her voice was almost hopeful when she inquired, "They are?" as if it were a surprise, and he felt the overwhelming need to clarify that for her.

"Of course they are. They care about you—why would you think any different?"

Her shoulders shrugged slightly, and she continued to look at his hands. "Because you've spent more time in here with me, when you—"

"I'm exactly where I need to be, and we spent plenty of time together while you were away," he cut her off quickly, dispelling the train of thought. Her blue eyes flickered upward then, assessing his sincerity, an almost imperceptible nod serving as her answer. "If you're feeling up to it, they've been begging me for three days to come and see you?"

Sasha dropped her eyes again, chewing slightly on her lip as she pondered what to do with that information, tried to determine how she felt considering the last time they'd seen her, she'd been on the kitchen floor in the midst of the worst panic attack of her life. "What did you tell them?" her voice was hesitant, quiet, and she waited for a moment as he paused, seemingly collecting himself.

"The truth—they heard, baby. It's not like I could hide it."

She inhaled audibly as she accepted it for what it was, let it go quickly. It was no one's fault. It was just the way things had played out—though she would have preferred a lie, however ridiculous that may sound. After a few more minutes of silent deliberation, she made eye contact with him again, "You can bring them up," and the curl of his lips downward was the only indication of his surprise.

"Alright, I'll go get 'em."

She was nervously playing with the comforter when she saw the shadows approach and break the light pouring in from the hallway, silly as it sounded, but she was so out of sorts that the concept of making small talk with them was almost foreign to her. The trepidation was eased, however, when she caught Sam's bright expression, the innocent happiness lifting her spirits. They both seemed happy to see her.

"Sasha!"

Sam climbed on the bed quickly, careful not to crumple the paper he was holding in his hand, and Ashley approached on her other side, a small hesitant smile on her face. Though she chose to stand rather than sit. "Hey, buddy," and though her voice sounded foreign to her ears, she was at least glad to feel her expression register warmth, genuine and unforced.

"I made you this." Sam held out the paper he'd been protecting, a card she now realized. She was genuinely touched, and she reached out, taking it delicately. A lump already forming in her throat, he'd put some considerable effort into it. Colored in the front and drawn some lettering that read _'Get Well Soon'._

"You did?" her voice reflecting the fact that she was moved. She opened it up and noted the drawing he'd attempted, a smile dimpled her cheeks at the rendition, but it was the message that filled her with unexpected sentiment. It was a simple list of reasons why they thought she was _"the best"_ and why she shouldn't be sad, right down to the fact that she had pretty hair written in a P.S—she gave a watery laugh when she reached that part. But what really sank in was the way they'd signed it off. ' _We missed you, love Ashely & Sam.'_

Sasha swallowed, fighting for composure but failing fast as she placed fingers over her mouth, trying to stop the tremble of her lip. "Thank you, I love it," she managed to choke out before she lost the battle entirely, and her face crumpled. She buried her face in her hands and felt small arms encircle her. Ashley. She climbed on the bed and hugged Sasha, Sam mirroring her on the other side.

"You'll be okay, Sasha. We're all here for you—right, Sam?"

"Yeah," he agreed.

Sasha nodded, unable to form words as she clasped a hand around Ashley's arm, returning her embrace caught entirely off guard by their kindness. By how much it affected her. Tom found them that way shortly after, both kids on either side hugging her as she cried softly—it squeezed at his heart. Wordlessly, Tom settled himself next to Sam, wrapping his arms around them all, she felt him at her back. Felt the light kiss against the back of her head before he settled his cheek against it. In that moment, Sasha realized she had a family, and they were worth fighting for.

* * *

Tom was sitting on the garden sofa out back. It was a beautiful night, a decent breeze making the humidity comfortable. Sasha had finally emerged from the room that morning. They'd spent an almost entirely normal day together, swum in the river with the kids—had dinner, played a board game, and roasted marshmallows by the fire. Precisely as it should have been, save for the fact that it was still eating her alive, and he could see it. Could see it in the way she dropped her eyes if they made contact with him for too long. Like she couldn't bear to look at him. In the way that she paused, staring off into space when she thought he wasn't looking.

The sound of the patio door caught his attention, and he turned, his heart aching when he saw her. She'd changed out of her bathing suit, taken a shower, and was wearing a dress he'd never seen before. Come to think of it, the last time he'd seen her in a dress was at the Christmas party. It was linen, white with thin straps, the light fabric billowing in the breeze as she walked to him. It struck him in that moment that he wished she could see herself the way he saw her, wished that she could understand that she was the most exquisite thing in the world to him—maybe then she wouldn't be so afraid to tell him what she'd done.

It wasn't fair she thought—as she walked over, bare feet sinking into the plush grass—wasn't fair that this night should be so beautiful, the sky so clear and the moon so bright as the breeze rustled the moss on the trees. The perfect accompaniment to the evening's orchestra of lapping water, and lively cricket chirps. Temperature, perfect and warming, like a well-worn blanket. Not when she was about to ruin it all by confessing.

His expression was open, questioning as she settled herself nervously on the same sofa, legs tucked under her and hands clasped tightly together in her lap. Her face was regretful. Her lips parted as she breathed, finding the words or a way to start as he waited patiently. The light of the moon caught his eyes and cast shadows over his impossibly handsome face and Sasha almost lost her resolve. Heart thundering and splitting in her chest.

"I crossed the line in Panama, and I don't know how to come back from it." Her voice was tight, eyes glassy and brows contorted. "I didn't just kill them, Tom. I tortured them—I cut off their hands and feet with a machete and made them crawl." The rest of her confession stilted and pitchy as she fought to control her voice. Brought a hand to her mouth, and covered it, squeezed her eyes shut tight because she couldn't bear to look at him. Didn't think she could withstand the disappointment and judgment she expected to find—the condemnation.

She knew him. She knew it. Tom was noble, he did the right thing, _always._ It was in the very fiber of his being, part of his DNA, and she'd just confessed to war crimes, hell, war crimes she'd _planned_ in some misplaced search for retribution. "I thought it would make it better and I was wrong." Her gaze was firmly fixed on her lap. Chin tucked close to her chest as she mumbled, "I was so, _so_ wrong—and I dragged Danny down with me."

Tom blinked, processing the information. Information that he'd somewhat suspected, though had no evidence to confirm. A heaviness set in but not for the reasons she likely presumed. Because he didn't want this for her. Didn't like the reality that she'd reached her limit, had found the pain that crippled her. Molded her into something she wasn't, not in her heart. Tom knew her heart whether she believed him or not. Sasha was a good person who'd made a terrible choice because of her pain. He knew what that did, had found it with Shaw. Lived in an uncomfortable reality where everything he thought he was, everything he'd sworn to be, was no more because he'd plummeted to her level. Made a choice and he wasn't the _'good guy'_ anymore. He was just a man. A man as human, and flawed as the rest of them. A man who'd passed judgment and murdered a woman in cold blood and lost a piece of his soul in the process.

"Because of the boy?" a quiet clarification, something he'd picked up on in the report though she'd spared the gruesome details. Sasha nodded, a hand coming up to wipe at her dripping nose. She was still refusing to look at him.

" _Sasha._ "

She shook her head, the tone of his voice a mystery, somewhere between sadness, regret, and something else that she couldn't quite place, and it became clear to Tom then—he knew what she needed from him. He knew what he needed to do.

"Look at me," he instructed softly. Watched as the struggle played out across her features—through her body language. The way she drew in a shaky breath as she brought her head up but kept her eyes pointed at the sky, looking for resolve. Saw how she tried to psych herself up before she finally found some control and the courage to face him.

Those eyes snapped down to meet his, swimming with fear, guilt, and shame. Turmoil. Heartbreak. Remorse. A question quickly colored them once she registered his expression. Instead of the damnation she'd expected, he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"I love you—exactly as you are. I always have," he paused to inhale, "and I will love you enough for the both of us until you figure out how to forgive yourself for being human. Everything's gonna be alright, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

It stole her breath. Realizing she'd never known the true joy that love could bring until this precise moment. Certainly not the unconditional kind. All she'd ever experienced was the longing, the desire, the soaring passion. The obsession. But salvation? Complete acceptance, safety, honesty? It had never been more apparent than now that she'd found it with him.

Her expression morphed until it was touched by an abstract wonder, soft and reflective—like she'd reached an epiphany. She shook her head in a fraction of a motion. "I made the biggest mistake of my life when I left you." It was breathy, not more than a whisper, and the confession made his heart stop.

Tom tilted his head to the side, eyes searching hers finding them to be completely open. Honest. Raw. He reached for her hands. Enclosed them within his own and caressed the skin with his thumb. "Is that your way of saying you'll marry me now if I asked?" that boyish twinkle in his eye, the lopsided half-smirk pulling at his lips but there was also a vulnerability. The fear that he was wrong, _again_. That she'd say no, _again_.

Sasha's eyes faltered. Trying desperately to control the hope that blossomed in her chest, the hope that she might actually get that chance and she was struck by how much she truly wanted it. More than she ever had in her life. When she'd married Chris it had felt like the right thing to do. The logical choice, if they were going to share a life it may as well be legally recognized. Ashamed to admit her approach had been more like a business decision, though she had loved him, just differently.

But this? What she felt for Tom couldn't be quantified. It wasn't simple, and she didn't control it—never had. Tom had embedded himself in a way that she'd never moved on from. Had no idea how, or why, or if it was even healthy to feel so much for one person. But Tom was her salvation. Probably always had been, and she'd walked away without communicating. Had pre-determined how they would end up when now she wasn't so sure of what she'd been so convinced of. All Sasha wanted was to spend the rest of her life with him. She wanted to grow old, be that couple that still loved each other madly at ninety. She wanted to be part of his family and everything that came with it.

She wanted forever.

"If you asked." Lips parted slightly as she breathed shallow anxious breaths.

The cautious smirk morphed into a soft smile, and he blinked once languidly before it slipped away. Expression becoming sincere. Reverent. An attempt to convey everything he felt in a single look, though he thought that impossible. Tom brought his hand up to touch her cheek, resting where it dimpled, knuckles pressed against her skin and thumb gently caressing it.

"Then marry me?"

An overwhelming surge of emotion engulfed her and lodged itself in her throat, made it hard for her to speak, or breathe, so she simply nodded instead. Moving to capture his lips and communicate everything she felt that way instead. Tom anticipated her, wrapping his arms around her waist as she climbed into his lap, her fingers skimming his strong jawline as she kissed him with everything she had.


	10. Chapter 10

Sasha sipped at her drink, eyes keenly watching the kids as they ran about the dock, jumping energetically in and out of the water. A small smile tugged at her lips when she watched Sam push his sister unceremoniously headfirst into the river, and the hearty laugh he gave after accomplishing it. The innocence brought her peace and a sense of calm. Reminded her why it was that she fought in the first place—not to give up on everyone, even though it was hard to reconcile sometimes. Her legs were outstretched on a blanket she'd laid out on the grass. After spending days hiding inside, she was enjoying the simple pleasure of the sun's rays, finding that the humidity no longer bothered her when compared to the jungle.

Tom approached in her peripheral, mindful not to startle her from behind—his own drink in hand and settled next to her on the blanket.

"Okay?"

Sasha nodded subtly, "Just thinking," pursed her lips slightly, getting used to the idea of opening up before she continued. "You're right—I never stopped to process. Just kept throwing myself from one problem to the next. I think a lot of us did."

"I figured that out the hard way, after I left." He offered quietly, absently picking at some blades of grass – his own admission pushing him somewhat outside of his comfort zone.

"Maybe we should find someone—we used to have checks and balances for this kind of stuff. Probably needs to start again if we're serious about rebuilding." Sasha turned her head to the side to catch his expression, though they were both wearing sunglasses, which made him harder to read.

"Oliver already gave me approval to start recruiting for all branches—I put a couple of feelers out while you were gone, found someone that specializes in veterans and PTSD."

Her eyebrow quirked slightly, clearly; he'd been thinking about this a lot longer than she really wanted to admit. Gave a head nod in acknowledgment before turning back to watch the kids again. Tom could tell she was giving something consideration, was about to ask before she spoke up.

"I have to talk to Danny—we agreed not to tell anyone." She turned to look at him again, hesitation present in her body language, "Are you going to say anything?"

Tom's head recoiled slightly, "Of course not. I thought that was obvious?"

Sasha chewed on her lip slightly, "It is a war crime, Tom." The implication hanging behind the words.

"You told _me_ , Sasha—not the CNO. Believe it or not, I am capable of making that distinction," he replied a little more flatly than intended, though he softened quickly, "I've got your back and Green's."

Sasha reached out to take his hand, squeezing it in response. "Thank you."

Tom brought her hand up and kissed the back of it, only then noticing that she was wearing five different shades of nail polish on her usually bare nails. The action of him inspecting her hand caused her to look over, and she laughed softly at the confusion on his face.

"Your daughter and I went through my polish collection this morning—and then my jewelry, and my clothes—just in case there's anything I don't want, of course," she elaborated with a fond smile, to which he made an "Ah" sound and threw his head back slightly in knowing.

She felt a pang of melancholy then, but not for herself—for the kids, for Ashely. For all of the ordinary things they'd missed and would miss growing up. "It's not fair," she muttered absently

"No, it's not." A quiet agreement, before he rose his glass back to his lips.

"You know I never did speak to her again—my Mother," she said it so casually that Tom almost choked on his drink. Her childhood, or rather her mother, was a topic they simply did not discuss. Nor touch upon, nor hint at. _Ever_. He'd learned that the hard way a long, long time ago. Sasha glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, a move hidden by her oversized sunglasses—not missing how he faltered before he recovered quickly. Turning to make sure he was giving her his undivided attention. She loved that about him.

"She reached out, about six years ago now—but I ignored it. And now she's probably dead, and all I can think is that I'm not that sad about it," she mused, scoffing slightly at the end and shaking her head. "What does that say about me?" she asked quietly, a rhetorical question that he wished he could answer.

"I don't—" he started, but she cut him off with a wry smile and a squeeze of the hand he was still holding.

"Relax, I know you don't have an answer for that. We're just talking, right? That's what we do now. I talk, you listen. You talk, I listen—and we hope the shrink can stop us from going insane." Her tone was light, familiar. Sounded like her old self, and he felt some of the worry he'd been harboring loosen its grip. 

"That's the general plan," he confirmed, deciding to push the envelope a bit since she seemed to be in a reflective and receptive mood. "Did you give what I said any more thought?"

"I did—" she paused for a moment, "I don't disagree that I need to take a break from fieldwork, but I can't go on leave and do nothing either."

Despite his best efforts, he was sure the conflict had rolled right across his face, but he bit his tongue. Not wanting to push her away by forcing the issue or trying to exert control over the situation, a tactic he was sure wouldn't go well. Sasha turned her head to the side slightly, a knowing smile gracing her features because he was trying so hard—to be different, to do things differently from how he'd always done them. She didn't want to seem like she didn't appreciate it.

"I promise, I will take a step back if I need to. But right now, I want something to focus on outside of being in my head twenty-four seven. I'll go to the counselor, and I won't go on missions until I'm cleared," she told him gently. He nodded his head slightly and stroked the back of her hand absently before accepting it.

"Okay," he agreed.

She smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss against his lips, making a noise of surprise when he used it as an invitation to grab her—pulling her down, and rolling them until her back was on the blanket, and he was perched above her. He kissed her deeply, one hand on her jaw, and the other cradled behind her head while her hands curled themselves around his biceps. Their kiss was interrupted not long after by giggling children.

"Ewww!" Sam declared, purposefully splashing some water from his wet body onto them.

"Hey! Cut that out," Tom said, reluctantly pulling away though his tone and the smile on his face let them know he wasn't really mad. 

"You guys need to get a room," Ashely grumbled—though she was secretly just happy that her Dad wasn't beside himself with worry, and Sasha seemed to be doing better these past two days.

"Yeah?" he asked, springing up suddenly, which caused her to shriek and run away, already knowing that he was about to chase her and dunk her back in the water. Sasha sat up, smiling as she watched Tom easily catch up with her, only to flinch when Sam flicked more water in her face with a mischievous grin.

"Oh you wanna be dunked too?" she chuckled, a playful warning in her voice as he took off running; she happily humored him, chasing him down towards the others. Tom pushed Sam off easily once he was close enough, ignoring his Son's yells to stay away. Sasha stood beside him, laughing as both kids splashed each other gleefully, momentarily distracted until she felt Tom pull the sunglasses from her face.

" _No_ —don't yo—" but she was unable to finish her sentence, squealing as he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her with him into the river fully clothed. He was still holding her as they submerged and subsequently re-emerged. Made sure not to keep them under for too long, but she still gasped when their heads broke the surface. Coughing over the small amount of water she'd inhaled by not closing her mouth fast enough.

He was laughing at her, a real laugh – one she felt like she didn't hear nearly often enough, and she wiped her face—pushed some of the hair out of her eyes so she could look at him. The smile was infectious, and she found those all too familiar butterflies erupt in her stomach as she watched him. Ran her fingers through his short hair, expression soft. He leaned forward and captured her lips again in an affectionate but more chaste kiss, much to the disgust of his kids, who splashed at them, and she laughed softly.

"Maybe we should stop—they might change their minds and decide they hate me," she mumbled, not quite pulling away entirely from his mouth.

"No, they're gonna have to get used to it," kissing her again.

* * *

Sasha broke away later that night while Tom cooked dinner, headed to her office sitting in the plush Herman Miller chair and absently noting that she wanted to take it with her when they left. She'd forgotten what a difference a good chair could make. Her gut was churning as she pulled her phone out of her pocket and fired off a quick text to Danny.

_Can you talk?_

A few moments later, she saw his caller ID pop-up on the screen. "Hey," she greeted.

" _What's up, Cooper? Everything good?"_ he sounded tired, and immediately the guilt started to swirl in her gut, making her hands shake slightly. She inhaled, trying to find the right words—trying to figure out how to start. She'd been practicing this conversation in her mind for the better part of the afternoon, yet everything she'd planned flew out of the window now she was on the spot.

"I told Tom," blunt and straight to the point. Probably the best course of action, and she waited with bated breath for his reaction. Danny frowned, casting a glance through the kitchen into the main living space where Frankie, Kara, and her Mother sat—he slipped out of the back door, the noise causing Kara to look up just in time to see him leave. Her brow furrowed because it was unlike him to take calls this late or this privately.

" _I thought we said we weren't going to tell anyone,"_ the disappointment in his tone evident.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I tried, but I couldn't do it—"

" _So you told the Admiral?! You could have called, I would have_ — _"_

"Danny," there was an edge to her tone, emotional, unlike anything he'd ever heard from her, and it gave him pause, "I couldn't get out of bed for _three days_. I couldn't talk, I couldn't stop crying. He had to force me to eat, he—" she broke off, blinking the moisture away from her eyes and staring up at the soffited ceiling to stop herself from going over the edge again.

Danny's frown grew deeper, the anger replacing itself with growing concern and an uncomfortable feeling that he couldn't quite place. Foreboding, like maybe this was the reason he'd barely been able to touch his son since he'd returned. That maybe he was headed down this path too. He heard her sniff and take a few audible breaths before she continued.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't take it—I couldn't even look at him. I thought what we did was justice. I thought if they got what they deserved it might be easier. And all I keep thinking is that I'm no better than them—" 

Danny squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that were burning in his eyes and cut her off, voice gruff with emotion, " _I know._ "

It was enough for her guilt-ridden ones to fall down her cheeks. She wiped at them quickly with trembling hands. Her voice wavered horribly, "I'm so sorry. I never should have—"

" _We're good, Cooper. I was already thinking_ _when you came to me. This isn't just on you, alright? We both made a choice," h_ e cut her off, kicking some dirt on the ground as he listened to her cry softly on the other end of the line. After giving her a few moments to compose herself, he continued. " _Is he uh_ —i _s he going to_ — _"_

"No." Her turn to cut him off, her voice was stronger, more resolute, and the relief he felt was palatable. Morbidly he noted that it was probably a good thing he'd chosen to commit a war crime with the only person in the Navy the Admiral would ever omit this for. Hell, probably the only person left on the planet outside of Chandler's kids. The Captain hadn't even given Dr. Scott a break, and she'd literally saved the human race.

" _You might have even done us a favor,"_ his tone glib, and she frowned.

"What do you mean?"

" _Kara's been asking Azima,"_ he elaborated, _"Admiral text me about a week ago, asked if I had something to tell him about Panama."_

Sasha did the math quickly in her head, closing her eyes when she recalled the night—heart clenching at the memory of how miserable he'd been when she finally left the shower. How heartbroken he'd looked, and how she'd done nothing but push him away—hurt him enough that he hadn't been able to sleep for the rest of the night. Something she knew because she'd lain there too, pretending right next to him.

"You should tell her," she breathed.

" _Can't_ — _she wouldn't understand. Admiral gets it. He's been out there_ — _he's seen what it's like."_ He justified, as much to himself as to her. Sasha sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Don't bottle it up, Danny. Not like I did. Tom found a psychologist that specializes in this. He's gonna bring him in and restart the department. I'm going to see them—I think you should consider it too." She heard him click his teeth on the other end. Imagined the way he liked to avoid eye contact if it pertained to anything he deemed too emotional or weak for him. Heard him clear his throat.

" _I'll uh, I'll think about it_ , _"_ he finally decided upon, and she nodded softly though he couldn't see her.

"Good. I'm here in the meantime. If you need to talk—I'll let you go. I'm sure Kara's probably wondering where you are."

" _G'night, Cooper."_

"Night."

Sasha blew out a breath that puffed out her cheeks and put the phone down—scrubbing hands over her face, taking a few moments to compose herself before she went back to join them for dinner.

* * *

"Do you want a wedding?"

Sasha rolled, propping herself up so she could see him better as they lay together in the sheets. "I think a very small one would be nice, something discreet," she answered honestly as he trailed his knuckles up the smooth skin of her arm, thumb caressing her collarbone before repeating the path again, bed sheet pooled at her naked waist.

_Discreet._

The corners of her eyes crinkled in a soft smile, "What about rings?" 

"Yes—a band, I don't need or want a diamond."

"But no last name," his tone was soft, though she couldn't help but hear the slight disappointment behind it. Her head turned to the side, causing her long wavy hair to swish over it and he absently bought his hands down to play with it, twirling the ends between his thumb and his forefinger.

"Not yet. Not while I still need some level of anonymity. And we still need to be careful in public," she confirmed softly, watching as he pursed his lips slightly.

"So, it's secret then,"

"Not secret—just—"

"Discreet," he finished for her.

"Discreet," she agreed with a nod of her head.

"When?"

Her lips faltered slightly, the soft smile morphing into a slightly more wistful expression, and he narrowed his eyes in question, not missing the change.

"October twenty-third," and suddenly, it made sense. Sasha saw the recognition in his eyes, the impact of the simple words as it dawned on him that she'd never forgotten the date. The day he'd first tried to propose, seventeen years prior. He didn't say anything as he looked at her through the darkness, the moonlight peeking through the curtains, the only source of illumination to cast a glow upon her features, catching her eyes as it always did and highlighting them beautifully.

"Figured it might be nice to replace it with a better memory," she offered, her left eyebrow quirking ever so slightly and a shy smile gracing her lips as she waited for him to indicate whether he liked the idea or not. His heart swelled, and he moved forward, capturing her mouth in a loving kiss, pushing her back onto the mattress, and she welcomed him readily. Hands skimming his bare torso easily as he settled himself on top of her, and they made love for the second time that night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Tuesday, September 6** **th** **, 2016** — **St. Louis, Missouri**

The coffee pot gurgled, almost splattering its contents over the counter through the spout as it filled the house with its unmistakable smell, mixed with toast. Sam's lively morning discussion contrasted with Ashely's sour expression—a morning person, she was not as they ate their simple breakfast at the dinner table. It was not unlike any other typical family morning, save for the fact that it was Sasha's first day back in the White House since leaving for Panama. Four months and two days had passed; had it really been so long? Vulture Team had always been scheduled for downtime until Labor Day following their expected return, and they'd arrived back late yesterday afternoon from Charleston. Tom thought it odd that while he'd simultaneously been acutely aware that a large part of him had been missing while she was gone, in some sense, it was almost like she'd never left. He wondered if this was the way Darien had felt. Like time had inexplicably slowed to a crawl without her yet flown by so fast that he barely remembered what it had been.

Tom leaned against the kitchen island as he waited, his mug from the James at the ready next to Sasha's simple white one. Vaguely wondered if she would be excited that they had actual fresh milk again rather than the powdered crap they'd made do with for months. He flicked through his personal emails—deleting no less than a dozen interview requests and "business inquiries" it had been like that ever since delivering the cure. Everyone wanted their piece of the story—to know the man behind the mission, be the first to get the exclusive outside of the official, White House sanctioned statements he'd given. He paused when he spied one from Mike, chuckling as he read the terrible joke it contained only to be distracted by the sound of heels.

Sasha paused, a curious but knowing smile gracing her features as she rounded the threshold, hadn't missed the way his eyebrows rose. To his credit, he'd tried to recover quickly. She narrowed her eyes at him slightly, a silent question on her face that asked— _what?_

"You look beautiful," offered quietly and simply because it was true. She was wearing clothes he'd never seen before, that she'd brought from her house—a billowing silk bow-tie neck blouse tucked in at the waist to some slacks that hugged all the right places and tapered just above her slender ankles. The shoes were new too, looked expensive – though he (or rather Darien) had never been much concerned with designer anything. Her hair was back to its usual sleek fashion, and she was wearing a little makeup and some sort of sheer frosty pink color on her lips that somehow made her eyes even brighter than usual. She was entirely out of his league, and he'd never been more acutely aware of it. Was still a little mystified by her sheer beauty, even now.

Sasha turned her head to the side, smiling warmly at him, little butterflies erupting in her chest because she'd forgotten that sometimes, unexpectedly, he could be very charming—usually when he least intended to be.

"The benefits of a good tailor and clothes that actually belong to me," she elaborated, coming closer to give him a quick peck on lips, her fingers lingering to smooth the collar of his service uniform skirting the four metal stars. His eyes tracked her movements as she traced them down his arm, following a particular vein to his wrist before linking her fingers with his. He was close enough that she could feel his warm breath on her skin, and she was trapped in the warmth and blue of his eyes, lost there; his own soft and subtle grin on his lips matching hers as he caressed the hand in his.

Ashely rolled her eyes and shook her head from the table, pulling headphones out of her backpack dramatically to plug her ears; she didn't want to listen to them flirt all morning. Sasha noticed it in her peripheral, and she bit her lip against the laugh but stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them again. It was ridiculous. She felt like a giddy teenager again, hadn't realized how different it might feel to be free of the weight, free of the burden of trying to keep certain aspects of her life hidden from him. To just simply be and exist and have someone to figure it out with. Perhaps it was the realization that this was finally their time. _It was right_ —they'd found each other, for good. All she knew was that she'd never been more in love with him in her life.

* * *

Her morning had been spent catching up on everything she'd missed. Upon entering, she was pleasantly surprised to find that he'd stacked everything she needed neatly on the desk, organized in her system—alphabetically and by date. That giddy feeling intensified. They'd made a lot of progress in the last four months, identified several assets they could use to retrofit an entirely new destroyer if they'd wanted—in fact, there was a proposal to do just that. The Michener, her eyes softened as she read it—a name he'd chosen, she was sure. Another report detailing plans to get Southern Command back to its full potential in light of the fuel treaty. Discussions on how best to continue to monitor the 14.5 million square miles of interest within its area of focus and how best to protect the canal and surrounding waters.

After several minutes of reading, she rose an eyebrow, her stomach flip-flopping a little—it was a recommendation to re-establish operations at Northern Command, along with full recruitment efforts at the academy, and a directive to relocate, and establish all intelligence agencies there by the end of 2017. Sasha pulled an orange post-it from the holder, deftly marking the page, and continued reading. A knock on her door drew her attention after thirty minutes or so.

"Come in."

A young woman entered, one she'd never seen before—looked to be in her late twenties to early thirties if she had to guess, sandy blonde hair and slim. Sasha rose her eyebrows expectantly, awaiting her introduction.

"Ma'am—I'm Kelsi, Admiral Chandler's Assistant; he asked me to give you these," she stated, walking over to the desk to hand Sasha a few more files. She took them with a polite but reserved smile. She extended her hand in greeting, noting that the woman's handshake was not as weak as she'd expected.

"Thank you, nice to meet you—I'm Sasha," pleasantries for the sake of decorum, she was sure Kelsi already knew who she was; Tom had sent her here after-all.

"Likewise."

Sasha narrowed her eyes slightly, a reticent expression upon her face, "When did you start?" her tone was light, casual.

"Oh, uh, almost four months now!" the way she fiddled with her hands, her stance and demeanor letting Sasha know she had a civilian background, in fact, she was a little awkward, and there was something about her that Sasha just couldn't quite place.

" _Hmm._ Well, welcome—please thank the Admiral for me?" the overly animated smile firmly fixed upon her face. Kelsi nodded, lingering for a moment before exiting the office. As soon as the door was closed, Sasha dropped the act. Brow furrowing slightly as she tried to decern precisely what it was that was so off-putting about her. Something in her eyes set her on edge.

She pulled out her phone to send a text.

_Just met your assistant – where did you find her?_

_I didn't. Reynold's asked if I wanted one and gave me her. Why?_

She chewed on her lip, considering whether it was rational to spend less than one minute in the presence of someone before determining with no evidence that there was something amiss, simply because she didn't like her eyes. The more she thought about it, it sounded ridiculous—perhaps it had something to do with James. If she was working in the White House, it meant Hughes had done a thorough background check. Still, her gut was telling her something—and she'd never been one to ignore her intuitions.

_Just a feeling, how much access does she have?_

_Files, my office,_ _I don't have her involved in anything personal. If you have a concern, talk to Hughes. I know they checked her, but I trust your gut._

_It's probably nothing. I'll look into it._

_Just be careful._

_That sounds familiar._

A laugh escaped her lips, and she shook her head, imagining the wry grin he was probably wearing right now.

_You're not cute._

_Yes I am, and you love it._

_Goodbye._

Tom smirked and put his cell down; though he was teasing her, he noted her concern. He'd been careful, he thought, but come to think of it—she had a point. They'd been caught with their pants down once by Shaw, and it was probably best to err on the side of extreme caution with new faces. It was the reason he kept zero personal effects at his desk, no pictures of his kids, took personal phone calls away from prying ears, and kept his phone glued to him at all times. He never wanted to find himself in a situation again where his family was used as a bargaining chip against him.

* * *

Tom heard her car approach in the driveway and pushed himself up from the sofa—headed to the microwave to reheat dinner; it was a little after seven. Smiled when he felt her arms wrap around his waist from behind.

"That smells good," she commented, placing a kiss through his t-shirt between his shoulder blades.

"I'm learning," his tone playful, because between the two of them, neither could be called skilled in the cooking department. Darien had always prepared his meals, and she lived on expensive take-out or meal services.

"You're going to be an amazing housewife," she teased.

"Ouch."

Her laugh filled the space, and he turned her so they were face to face, "How was work? You find anything on Kelsi?"

The slight pout and subtle shake of her head, giving him her answer before she spoke, "No. Nothing, has a sister—originally from Florida, used to be a teaching assistant, no partner, no criminal record, social media checks out. She's squeaky clean." She rose her eyebrows and pinched her lips, eyes watching the timer on the microwave.

Tom turned his head to the side. His eyes narrowed in pondering, "But something's off?" she glanced at him then, making eye contact. Shrugged her shoulders and ran her tongue over her teeth as she thought.

"Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm being overly paranoid—I just—there's something about her. Her eyes." She trailed off, licking her lip and looking down because she wasn't making sense. Tom studied her for a few moments more, gaze flickering up and down her face.

"So, I'll get a new assistant." It was simple, and her eyes snapped up again, a curious expression coloring her features.

"Just like that?"

He made an expression to downplay his part, similar to how he had in China when he'd told her he simply drove the ship—not that he'd saved the world. "I trust you." His tone light—easy, and her expression went soft. Knowing he had no idea how much she needed to hear those words from him. Not knowing how it balmed her tumultuous soul. "You need to stop being so charming—and don't do anything yet, let me sit on it." She pushed herself up on tiptoes and kissed him just as the microwave chirped. He was smiling, the twinkle back in his eye, and she could feel herself blushing because she could see where the rest of this night was going, and it was marginally ridiculous that she could want him so much just because he was near. Tom let her go, moving aside so she could retrieve her dinner, fingers itching to take her out of those fancy-ass clothes, but he refrained, shoving them in the pockets of the sweatpants he'd changed into.

A while later, they settled on the couch, her feet in Tom's lap. He absently massaged them as they watched an old show. It wasn't that great, and she'd seen it a million times anyway—her eyes wondered instead, leaving the TV to watch him. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, and she smirked.

"You don't like the show?"

Her reply was nonchalant, "I've seen it." He inclined his head as an answer and turned his eyes back. Acutely aware that she was still staring at him.

"So, NORTHCOMM, huh?" she asked after a time. His mouth quirked downward.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to bring that up," he turned his head to look at her.

"You wanna go back?" it wasn't an accusation, far from it—rather an open, honest question.

He took a moment before answering, "I've thought about it." Sasha tipped her head, silently letting him know that his answer wouldn't suffice. His expression became somewhat sheepish, "Yes—Norfolk is home," he admitted.

Sasha inhaled, raising her brows slightly. "That's um—to your old house?"

Tom frowned and quickly shook his head, "No. You said it was gone, and frankly, it's time to move on. I thought maybe we could find a place." Tom searched her eyes, trying to gauge her reaction, but she was keeping it perfectly vague.

"Have you asked the kids what they think?" Judging by the way his eyes narrowed, the answer to that question was a resounding no.

Tom sighed, "I know what Ash will say, she loves it here – but neither of us is staying here long term, can't keep running everything out of the White House forever—you know that."

"I do—but there's a difference between having a conversation and informing everyone where they're going to live after the fact." Her pose was careful and considered, her body language trying to communicate the hope that he wouldn't take it the wrong way.

"We're moving?" Ashley said incredulously from the landing of the stairs, they hadn't heard her approach thanks to the TV.

Both Sasha and Tom closed their eyes at the same time as they cringed. "Ash," he warned, turning and leaning over the back of the couch to face her. She was indignant, arms crossed, and the beginning of angry tears already pooling in her eyes.

She scoffed and shook her head. "You always do this! Every time I make friends, we have to move!" turning on her heel and running back upstairs.

"Hey, come back here—" he called, but she ignored him, the slamming of her door echoing down the hall. Tom sighed heavily, mouth hanging agape, and Sasha looked regretfully down at her feet.

Hating the expression of failure he wore every time he thought he'd let someone down. Not been good enough. "I'll go," already pushing herself up and ignoring the protest that was about to leave his mouth. When she reached Ashely's bedroom, she knocked once to announce herself.

"Go away!" Ashley called, the sound muffled by what sounded like a pillow.

"It's me, and no—we need to talk," Sasha replied, pushing open the door to find her lying on the bed, face buried as suspected.

"No, we don't." Came her snarky retort.

"Ashely," Sasha warned, her tone letting her know this was not up for debate as she settled herself next to her on the bed. "First, no one has made a decision about anything yet. Your Dad and I were just _talking_ about the fact that he would prefer to go home to Norfolk, " she started.

"You know he always does what he wants!" Ashley fired back, still refusing to lift her head from the pillow.

"That's not true and I'm going to argue that living in St. Louis was never part of the long-term plan, this is just where he was needed for a while, where we were all needed," Sasha explained calmly. "The goal was always to get our bases in working order again, and then disperse personnel to them accordingly – and the way things are looking, it's either going to be Florida or Norfolk."

"Why does everything have to be about your jobs!?"

"Ash, that's not fair, and you know it. You encouraged him to go back, remember? This is part of that. We don't always get the luxury of choice—much less when we're still trying to rebuild the country." Sasha frowned slightly, there was something else to this. "What's this really about?" her tone was softer now, and Ashely sniffed.

"I don't want to leave!" she wailed, and Sasha narrowed her eyes.

"I know that, but why? What's so special about St. Louis that you can't find in Norfolk? You grew up there, don't you want to see your old friends?"

"I like my new friends," and suddenly two and two equaled four. Sasha rolled her head backward and clasped her hands in front of her; her expression morphing into understanding and softening.

"Is this about Justin?" Ashley's soft sob and silence all the confirmation she needed. "You love him." It was a statement as much as a question, and Sasha sighed, settling herself back on the bed to lay next to her as she continued crying into her pillow. Remembering the innocence of love in her teens, when she'd had her first serious boyfriend and been convinced that they would run away and get married as soon as they turned eighteen. Sasha smiled fondly at the drama of it all. How the entire world had revolved around him and she'd thought no boy could ever compare – and she'd been right because then she'd met a man and realized what love actually was. The man who was currently beating himself up on the sofa downstairs.

"Listen, you're a smart, beautiful young woman—and I know you think nothing will ever compare to how you feel right now, but I promise you—you have your whole life ahead of you. Everything will work itself out. No decisions have been made, even if we do end up moving—it won't be for a while, probably until next year sometime, and if you and Justin are still a thing then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." She paused, letting the words sink in. "Okay?"

Ashely sniffed several more times, hiccupped before calming down somewhat and nodding. "Okay," mumbled and muffled. Sasha smiled and patted her softly on the leg. Sitting up and heading towards the door.

"I'll give you some space—but you need to talk to your Dad about this."

"I can't tell him I have a boyfriend," she said, exasperated.

"Yes, you can. And you will – because I will prepare him for it."

That got her attention, and her head snapped up. Eyes red-rimmed and still teary, though her sadness had been replaced with abstract panic. "You can't!"

Sasha inclined her head. "Ashely, I've never treated you like a child, and I'm not going to start now. You're a young woman, and you're going to have feelings, and if you want your Dad to consider your input – you need to communicate with him and be honest." When Ashley's expression didn't change, Sasha tried again. "I'm not going to give him details. I'm just going to suggest that at your age—he shouldn't be shocked if you find someone you like," her expression was kind, a knowing smile on her lips as she delivered it. "And I'll also remind him that he can't keep you forever—but you need to be patient with him too. He loves you, you will always be his little girl, and he only wants the best for you. There are so many people who don't have that anymore." Sasha's words colored with sadness at the end, and she could tell they hit their intended mark when Ashely's face softened.

"Okay, but can you wait and not do it tonight?" she asked cautiously.

Sasha nodded, "Not tonight—but soon," she agreed, giving her one last encouraging smile before closing the door quietly and heading back to Tom. He was still sat on the sofa, no longer watching the show but instead staring despondently ahead – and he'd gone to grab a beer. He looked defeated, and it made her heartache. Tom glanced at her as she came to stand before him. "She hate me again?" tone sullen and withdrawn.

"No. It will be fine, I promise—she's just worried about losing friends and reacted poorly." Sasha settled next to him, drawing his head toward her and placing a comforting kiss on his cheek, fingers caressing the skin there. "Can we go back to the part where you were undressing me with your eyes?" she teased lightly, glad that it elicited some warmth in his expression, a small pull at the corner of his lip. He wanted to, he really did—but the larger part of him was drowning in feelings of inadequacy. Sasha was the glue holding them all together, and she'd only known his kids for nine months. Didn't know what he was supposed to do or how he could try harder to get through to Ashley, he was at a loss for how to make her happy. How to be the one to comfort her when she got in these moods, moods that almost always seemed to be caused by him.

"I don't know how to make her happy. Everything I do is wrong," he said, drawing the bottle up to his lips. Sasha's heart clenched, and she brushed a hand through his hair.

"Tom, you're trying your best. I told you. I get to play good cop. It makes it easier for her to tell me things, but she needs you. Just be patient, we've all been through a lot. Normal might not ever happen, and I think at this point, that's okay." Tom blinked and swallowed heavily against the lump of emotion that had lodged itself tightly in his throat. Considering her words for what they were – he didn't have the answers any more than she, none of them did. They were all just figuring things out, and maybe she was right. Maybe that's all he could really ask.


	12. Chapter 12

**Wednesday, October 12th, 2016—St. Louis, Missouri**

Danny stormed out of the house, running a ragged hand through his unruly hair. Kicked angrily at the curb, the chill of the air biting his lungs in a strangely satisfying way. It gave him something to focus on other than the gaping chasm of failure, guilt, and pain he'd been slowly drowning in since Frankie Benz had shot his brains out point-blank on that cruise ship.

"Danny!?" Kara's frantic voice called him from the porch. He looked up at the black sky, the streets devoid of all light, save for the soft glow emitting from their house. One of those small daily reminders that though he was _"home,"_ things would never be like before, no matter how much they all pretended.

"Go back inside, Kara," he bit out, harsher than intended—it made him cringe. Heard her scoff, and her angry footsteps muffled by the boots she'd thrown on stomping down the wooden stairs of their porch. Absently noted that he really did need to look at that third step – the way it cracked every time there was weight on it sounded like rot.

"No, you don't get to do this—we're _married_ , Danny—for better or for worse," she spoke passionately, grabbing his arm to force him to turn around and look at her. The action made him see red; he wrenched his arm out of her grasp and stepped away.

"Stop! I can't be what you and Frankie need me to be right now," he explained, shaking his head as he walked backward away from her. Trying to ignore the hammering pain her tearful expression elicited.

"Why won't you just tell me what happened?!"

Danny dropped his head, drawing his lips together because he'd asked himself the same question a thousand times, and every time he failed to find the answer. It was stuck inside of him—like a broken record skipping on the same three-beat section over, and over, and over again.

"Go back inside. It's cold," he tried, watching the way she shivered and drew her arms across her small figure. She was only wearing flimsy nightclothes. Kara scoffed again, though not in anger—in frustrated helplessness, they'd been playing this game for two months now. In some ways, anytime he lost someone, anytime he came back from a mission that had gone sideways. Anytime the failure was too great and yet she could never get through to him. Never get him to see that he needed to deal. That she was capable of being there to help him through it.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore," Kara brokenly whispered, a few tears finally making themselves known. "You barely look at Frankie," her voice pitched horribly as she struggled to say the words. "I don't know how to get through to you. _I love you_. I don't understand why you can't just talk to someone."

Danny sucked on his teeth somewhat, buried his hands in his pockets to control himself. The tears swimming in his eyes blurred the damp pavement that he stood on. The weight of her words surrounding him.

"I don't know, Kara—I don't know." It was quiet, broken. It was the truth.

Pain blossomed in her heart, and she sucked on her cheeks. Nodding silently as she worked up the resolve to give him the ultimatum that he needed to hear. She loved him more than anyone in the world except for her son, and she couldn't stand watching Frankie suffer the rejection any longer.

"Well, you need to figure it out. Because our son deserves to have a Father who can look at him." She said resolutely. Drawing her wobbling lips together as the tears slipped unchecked down her cheeks.

* * *

Tom frowned when he heard the knock on their door. It was late, almost midnight. The kids were in bed, and so were he and Sasha, though they were still awake, talking. They exchanged a look, and Tom got out of bed, went to his gun safe, and pulled his sidearm before heading downstairs. Tom relaxed and switched the safety back on when he'd peered through the curtains and spotted Green standing on the porch.

On his part, Danny was deeply regretting being there. Questioning how he'd fallen so far as to be standing on his CNO's steps, in a t-shirt and jeans in 50-degree weather because he had nowhere else to go. Burk and Miller were on the James, so they were out of the question; hell, Kara would have been too had she not requested leave. He couldn't stand being there anymore, his house, suffocating under the weight of his failures. Failures as a husband, as a man, as a leader, as a father…

"Green—everything alright?" Tom asked as he opened the door, stepping aside in a silent invitation for him to enter. Danny only hesitated for a moment before crossing the threshold. Tom closed the door quietly, turning the lock again with a click that seemed magnified to Danny's ears. Acutely aware of the fact that he hadn't yet answered the Admiral because he couldn't formulate the response.

"I uh, I'm sorry, Sir," he started awkwardly, and the proverbial heaviness settled itself upon Tom's shoulders because he could see how much Danny was struggling and knew that he wasn't there to see him.

"You're good—need me to get Sasha?" he asked, keeping his tone purposefully casual and light. Danny's only response was to nod slightly as he continued avoiding eye contact. "Make yourself comfortable," Tom instructed, gesturing through the foyer to the living room. When he reached the bedroom, Sasha was already up, pulling on a robe. She'd heard him let someone in, her sneaking suspicion confirmed by the solemn expression he wasn't quite managing to hide. Her heart fell, guilt flaring all over again, churning in her gut. The apprehension was clear in Tom's tone as he spoke.

"It's Green—he doesn't look good," he warned, caught between the desire to shelter Sasha from her own guilt, and knowing they couldn't let Danny go down this path too. Tom was worried. She'd just started doing better after a setback. Still occasionally triggered, but on the right track, and he feared that this could derail her. Send her into freefall again. If he were honest, he struggled with it daily. With his inherent need to control and protect. Had to remind himself that this was one thing he couldn't fix for her. Not this time. Sasha inclined her head slightly and moved toward the door.

Danny had his head in his hands as he sat on their couch, didn't bother to move, even when he felt her sit down beside him. The silence stretched for a moment before he heard her speak.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea? I think we might even have beer if you're interested." An attempt to break the ice, get him talking, or doing anything other than looking so broken and defeated.

"Does it help?" he asked quietly, which elicited a slight frown of confusion from her.

"What?"

"The shrink," he elaborated, the words tasting sour in his mouth as he scrubbed hands down his cheeks before resting his chin on his knuckles. He stared at the wall. The tightness in her chest eased, the air coming more easily.

"It does—and it's a hell of a lot easier than what you're going through now."

Danny shook his head bitterly, let out a scoff, voice strangled as he replied. "I can't look at Frankie, every time, I see that kid." He paused, and she waited. "Kara— " he broke off. Hanging his head in shame as he became overwhelmed.

"Hey, we'll figure this out," she reassured, placing a hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "Start small, okay? Make an appointment with Grantham tomorrow. He'll fit you in, and everything else we can work on."

"But the mission—" he started, and she cut him off definitively.

"I can't send you out there, not like this. I'll borrow Burk or find someone if I have to, but we need to take care of this first."

He exhaled heavily, scrubbing defeated hands over his face and leaving them there. Elbows resting heavily on his knees, he was lost. That much he knew, not sad, not angry, _lost_ , and so he agreed. Not like he had any better ideas or any other plans, he took the leap of faith.

"Okay."

It was quiet, but it was the relief they both needed, and Sasha squeezed her hand on his shoulder, bringing it back to rest at her side instead. "Okay," she agreed.

* * *

Some time later, she slipped into their bedroom. Danny had fallen asleep on the couch. She'd text Kara to let her know he was safe at their house. Promised to provide an update in the morning. Tom was awake, his face illuminated by the bedside lamp as it cast an orange glow across the bed. He was reading a book on warfare – he didn't read much of anything else though she gave little judgment to that fact. He looked up when she appeared, putting the book down on the table.

"You okay?" it was soft, not more than a whisper, and the lump that welled in her throat was uncomfortable as it was immediate. Tom's heart sank, knowing that expression well by now. One lost in thought and hampered by carried guilt. Sasha looked away, eyes fixating on arbitrary wrinkles in the sheets instead. Avoiding eye contact was the only way to maintain some semblance of control these days. It seemed that he could now see through her tricks like glass. While it brought comfort to feel that she wasn't alone anymore, it also left her in the precarious predicament where a simple look from him, if too soft, could bring forth anything she might be attempting to bottle up. She was tired of crying, she really was. Tired of feeling so unlike her usual self. Tired of the hurt. The silence was not more than a moment, but it was deafening enough for Tom.

He reached out, pulled back the covers, and instructed, "Come here," to which she gladly obliged, not bothering to take off the robe as she snuggled in close to him. His arms were her comfort and safety. Like she finally understood the clichéd sentiment of being someone's 'rock'. Tom tucked his chin atop her head as it rested in its usual spot and sighed. Rubbed large circles over her back as she fought to keep the tears at bay. It was one thing to know you'd failed someone, and it was another to see the damage firsthand; she was entirely unprepared for it. Sasha's pulse thrummed in her ears, focus narrowing down to the deep regret she felt over her lapse of judgment in Panama. Unsure if she would ever truly be 'over it' in fact, she was sure that no such state could exist in the future. The most she could hope for was a way to live with the guilt that didn't consume her every waking moment. Some days, she thought she could get there—others, she wasn't so sure.

This was one of those moments.

* * *

Danny returned home the following day, late in the afternoon. Having spent the majority of the day glued to Tom and Sasha's sofa, save for his appointment with Grantham, he figured it was time to man-the-fuck up and deal with his issues. Kara was playing with Frankie when he stepped through the door, Debbie sitting on the sofa watching with joy. The mood immediately shifted as Kara schooled her features into a trepidatious and cautious expression. Debbie immediately excused herself from the room, retreating instead to her bedroom at the back of the house, silently taking Frankie with her at Kara's request.

He stood awkwardly for a few moments, mouth making fish-like motions as he struggled to find the right words to say.

"I'm sorry," he started, and her stance softened a fraction. "I uh—I spoke to Grantham today." He seemed unsure, clearly still struggling with the idea—with the concept of voicing out loud that he was not okay.

Kara's brows rose in shock, and she audibly sighed in relief, "That's a good thing, Danny," she encouraged, her tone reassuring and sympathetic. He sniffed, dropping eye contact in favor of looking at the converse she wore.

"He thinks I have PTSD," he muttered, and she nodded at him slowly, stepping forward to rest her hands on his cheeks.

"Okay," she said, and his eyes flickered up then—meeting her green ones that were distinctly watery. He searched them, looking for the judgment he expected but finding nothing but love and acceptance. Seeing instead that she looked at him just the way she always had and for a moment, he wondered why he'd waited so long at all to talk to her. She smiled at him softly, stroking her thumbs against his skin. "For better or worse, right?"

Danny sucked in a breath, suddenly becoming overwhelmed, and he nodded his head sharply. Gladly burying his face in her neck as she encircled him with her arms. He clung to her tightly as his shoulders shuddered, finally finding some relief from the proverbial anchor around his neck.

"I love you," he told her, his voice horribly strangled, but it was the only thing he could say to communicate effectively. Kara squeezed her eyes closed, clenching her fists in his shirt as she stood on tiptoes, trying to press herself as close to him as possible.

"I love you too. Don't ever forget that."


	13. Chapter 13

**Friday, December 9th, 2016—Mount Pleasant, South Carolina – 1930 hours**

"Alright, they're here!" Kara uttered in a hushed tone gesturing with her hands for everyone to move. The group dispersed quickly, taking various hiding places throughout the main living room and upper walkway. The sounds of tires crunching on gravel followed by slamming car doors and inane chatter floated muffled from the exterior. Miller glanced over a Burk with an excited grin on his face and tried to stifle the mischievous giggles from bursting forth, fingers itching to pull the party string in his hands.

" _Ash_ — _don't forget to grab your trash –"_

" _Just leave it_ — _I was planning on cleaning it this weekend anyway, I'll throw it out tomorrow,"_ Sasha interjected, hoping the lie wouldn't cause too much suspicion on Tom's part. It had been bad enough trying to get the James docked in Charleston without his notice—a near-impossible feat achieved only with the help of Slattery and President Oliver himself. The sound of a key turning the lock echoed across the cavernous ceilings, the dozen crew members waiting with bated breath for the door to swing open.

" _Shit, I left my phone in the car."_

Mike gave an exaggerated eye roll as a few members of the group let out quiet groans of frustration. "Shh," Kara whispered sharply, worried the sound would give them away.

" _Wait, the doors jammed_ — _can you get it?"_ they heard Sasha say, and they primed themselves again. Tom frowned somewhat and turned away from the porch steps to move back toward the door. His confusion only deepened when he opened it with ease and stepped through into pitch-black the foyer.

"Sash the doors—"

"SURPRISE!"

Tom visibly recoiled, almost pulled his gun before he realized what was going on. A chorus of voices assaulted him, the lights suddenly kicked on, and streams of multi-colored string descended from the upper walkway of the stairs accompanied by the blare of kazoos and party poppers from every direction. Sasha laughed with glee at the dumbfounded expression on Tom, Ash, and Sam's faces before yelling over the noise and commotion.

"Happy Birthday!"

Tom turned to face her, a slow wide smile spreading over his face. "You did this?" Sasha nodded through her laughter. Miller and Burk chose that moment to attack her with the remaining party string, and she squealed, holding her hands up to protect herself as they aimed from above.

Tom shook his head and laughed. All four of them were covered head to toe in no shortage of florescent crap, confetti, and string ribbons alike. Even Ashley's sour exterior had softened in favor of wonder as she noticed the banner pinned up high in the living room. It read ' _Happy Birthday Tom & Ashley' _though the actual date of hers fell on the thirteenth, it was close enough and an appreciated gesture. The ire over being stuck in Charleston for her fifteenth away from her friends eased considerably. Ashely spotted Kat and Diaz and waved at them enthusiastically. They'd hit it off during Christmas at the White House and stayed in touch throughout the year.

"Say cheese," Mike called, drawing all of their attention just in time for a dozen pictures to be taken by their unexpected guests. He let out a guttural laugh when he reviewed the image and tucked his phone away before stepping forward to shake Tom's hand. "Happy Birthday my friend," he said as he pulled him into a one-armed embrace.

"Good to see you, though I'm gonna need an explanation on how you docked here when the James is supposed to be in Mayport," Tom replied easily, watching in his peripheral as Sasha hugged several members of the crew and vulture team alike that neither of them had seen for months.

Mike clapped his shoulder and stepped back, only then catching the reflection of light from Tom's left hand. He tipped his head in interest. "Looks like we both have some explaining to do," he quipped, to which Tom smirked.

"I'm assuming you brought cigars?" Tom deflected as he brushed himself clean as best he could. The string and confetti fell in clumps to the floor below him.

Mike offered a wide grin and patted the pocket of his jacket. "Courtesy of our new friend Arias," he confirmed.

"Knew there was a reason I keep you around," Tom teased as his attention was drawn to Burk, Miller, Wolf, and Granderson, who were all congregating and waiting to greet him.

Mike smirked and nodded his head toward the garden. "Whenever you're ready. I'm gonna grab a beer and say hello to your _wife_." The shit-eating grin on Mike's face only confirming that he had very much intended the others to overhear. The shock was palatable on each of their faces.

"Wait, are you serious?" Miller blurted out quickly, his eyes settling quickly upon the simple gold band on Tom's ring finger. He let out a jubilant sound, his expression forming pure excitement, and he punched Burk in the shoulder. "Look!" pointing to Tom's hand. "That means I won! You need to pay up."

"You making bets on my personal life Miller?" Tom called sternly, his expression stoic and serious enough to fluster the younger man. Miller reflexively straightened and stood to attention.

"Uh, I'm sorry, Sir," he blurted out quickly, while Burk and Alisha did their best to stop the smirks from spreading across their faces. They knew the Admiral was only busting his balls, though it seemed, as usual, Miller was oblivious. Tom dragged the moment out, fixing him with an icy glare as he looked his Lt. up and down before slowly letting mirth creep into his expression. Burk snorted and brought his fist up in an attempt to stifle his laugh. The action was enough for Miller to finally catch on, the relief palatable.

"Wait—you're not actually mad?" he asked, bewildered, and Alisha burst into laughter.

"You should have seen your face," she laughed, her amusement only growing as she watched the hot blush creep up his skin, turning the tips of his ears red.

"Screw you guys," Miller mumbled in embarrassment, and Tom clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good to see you Miller," he said jovially before moving on to greet Burk and Alisha.

* * *

Mike caught up to Sasha in the living room. She'd managed to clean herself up for the most part and was chatting with Azima. Mike approached from behind, and Azima inclined her head to draw her attention.

"Cooper!" Mike greeted warmly, enveloping her in a firm hug and placing a kiss on her cheek. She beamed at him, squeezing his shoulders as he pulled back. "Or should I say Chandler?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and moving his eyes toward the simple dainty gold band on her finger. Sasha blushed slightly and sucked on her cheeks. She tipped her head and gave him a pointed look as she answered. " _Cooper_ —last thing I need is my face plastered everywhere."

Mike gave a curt nod though he was unable to hide the smile and fondness from creeping into his eyes. "I'm happy for you. About time he pulled his head out of his ass." He was only half-joking.

"Agreed!" Azima said forcefully, fixing her with a glare before excusing herself to greet the Admiral in the foyer.

Sasha chuckled softly, shook her head. "Actually, I had him beat on this one," she remarked wryly, falling into step gracefully with Mike as they moved toward the kitchen. It looked fantastic; the oversized island was laden with food and drinks, the alcohol stash finally being put to good use. Kara and Danny had done an excellent job setting things up for her. A sizable pile of gifts was arranged on the large dining table, along with several cards—they'd even managed to track down some balloons to decorate. The Green's arrived yesterday. A suggestion that they could use a weekend together sans Frankie from Sasha. The house was more than big enough to accommodate both couples for the weekend, even with ten other guests intending to crash for the night. Mike frowned in confusion and shot her a look that communicated he didn't understand.

"Believe it or not, this isn't the first time he asked me to marry him." She grabbed one of the wine glasses set out and poured herself a healthy amount of white. Mike followed suit and grabbed some local brew from the cooler, drinking from the can.

"Really?" he asked, his interest keenly piqued.

"Mmmm—before Darien," she mentioned casually, loading up a plate of food.

Mike quirked an eyebrow and spoke through a mouthful of bruschetta. "Well, he is punching. Can't say I blame you for turning him down." The smile on Sasha's face caused her cheeks to dimple as she tucked her head down a fraction. "When'd you two fools make that happen anyway?" he continued curiously.

"October twenty-third. We were going to invite you, but the timing didn't work out, well, actually, we didn't end up inviting anyone. Just us, the kids, and two witnesses," she elaborated, and Mike nodded. The James had been on a vital supply run that fortnight. With Garnett assigned to engineering the Michener and Kara on leave—he couldn't be spared, even for a marriage.

"S'ok—I hate weddings. Usually long, boring, and stuffy with way too many speeches." Mike chirped.

Sasha tipped her head, "I agree, that's why I didn't want to make it a big deal." She wiped her mouth with a napkin before continuing. "We're trying to keep it quiet. In the circle, so to speak," she added, glancing at him, and his expression changed quickly into seriousness.

"Understood—I'll make sure the crew keeps it secure."

She smiled softly. "Thank you. I wish it didn't have to be that way, but until I'm done with missions, we can't risk it getting out. Maybe in a couple of years, when things are more stable..." A hand on the small of her back caught her attention, and she turned, settling herself against Tom's side as he joined them. Sasha chuckled softly when she noticed the pink string still caught in his hair, removing it while he looked down at her from his peripheral. A small grin pulled at the corner of his lip before he focused his attention on Mike.

"You two conspiring at my expense?" Tom said accepting the beer that was handed to him.

"I'm not at liberty to disclose." Mike played along.

Sasha gave an open-mouthed smile as she responded. "Just wait until you see the cake."

Tom turned his head sharply and frowned. Her eyes were playful and mysterious as she pulled herself away from him slowly. Her laughter taunting him as she waved goodbye, heading into the living area to mingle with their guests. Tom shook his head in bewilderment as he watched her saunter away.

Mike rose his free hand in an innocent gesture when Tom turned back. "I know nothing."

* * *

The party was in full swing. The three oversized sofas had been re-arranged to allow a large expanse of floor space that functioned as a dancefloor, currently host to a wild assortment of moves from the crew. Sasha lingered watching from the kitchen as Miller attempted some kind of worm maneuver on the ground, with Sam quickly following suit. Taking stock of the room, noting thankfully that everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves just fine—Ashely included.

Kara wondered over, Danny had spent most of the night with Burk and Miller. Something that hadn't escaped either of their notice. She poured herself a whiskey and settled back against the counter next to Sasha, joining her in quiet observation from the sidelines. They stayed that way in comfortable silence for a time before Kara spoke.

"How did you do it? Even after he left, you guys made it work." Sasha followed her gaze across the room to where Tom stood by the fireplace. As was typical, he was surrounded by company, Russ, Joe, Andrea, and Mike. Seemingly on cue, he looked up and caught her eyes across the space. He lingered for a few seconds, warmth coloring his expression, and she smiled softly in return before he was drawn back into the group.

Sasha shrugged, her lips drawing tight across her teeth as she considered whether there really was an explanation capable of encompassing Kara's request. "I just— _I love him_. At the end of the day, nothing he does will change that." She paused before continuing, "The only difference is we finally stopped fighting it."

Sasha sighed and put her glass down, turning to fold a cotton napkin on the island with precision. The momentary distraction gave her pause enough to formulate her next words. She looked up, facing Kara this time. "Danny loves you and Frankie more than anything. Right now, he's scared, and he's running. I can tell you from experience that's a hard cycle to break." Kara narrowed her eyes, blinking against the lump in her throat. Sasha reached out to touch her upper arm, a reassuring gesture. "Don't give up on him—it's not easy, it will never be perfect, but he _will_ come around. I know it."

"How can you be so sure?" Kara asked.

Sasha smiled then, ruefully. "How much do you know about Tom and I's history?"

Kara judged her response carefully. "Not much, actually. The consensus is that you obviously knew each other before." Mindful not to share the sordid details of the theories passed through scuttlebutt regarding the over-familiarity of their Captain and resident spook. Even ones as salacious as an extramarital affair. For all of their guesses, one point remained consistent—whatever history lay between them, it clearly was not platonic. The only variables were when and how it went down.

Sasha gave her a small knowing smirk. "We were together _before_ he met Darien," she supplied, and Kara faltered slightly, taken aback that she'd so easily been able to read between the lines.

"To be clear, I never thought the Admiral would cheat on his wife. You can thank Miller and some of the younger guys for that." Kara added sardonically. The corners of Sasha's eyes wrinkled in amusement—it was fitting. She knew the rumors had gone into overdrive after Tom left. Knew her withdrawn behavior had only added fuel to that fire, yet at the time, she'd simply been too despondent to care. The sympathetic glances thrown her way any time his name was mentioned did nothing but add salt to the festering wound.

"He asked me to marry him, and I ran. I moved to another state when he went home for Thanksgiving and didn't even say goodbye." Kara did her best to hide the shock but ultimately failed, the way her eyebrows rose, illustrating it. Sasha gave her a sheepish look and tipped her head to the side before continuing. "We crossed paths two years later, right after Ashely was born." Sasha paused, a saddened smile pulling at her lips as she recalled the moment. "Even after what I did to him, he still looked at me like I was everything—and twelve years later, right before he went to board that plane in Asia he did it again," she continued somewhat breathlessly, the confession quiet. Sasha shifted her eyes back to Kara's green ones. "Danny looks at you that way." Her head inclining as she spoke resolutely. "When you love someone that much, it doesn't matter how long it takes, who they're with, or how far away they are. It doesn't stop." Kara licked her lower lip and swallowed, considering Sasha's admission.

"The good news is that you're already married. And neither one of you is pretending not to be in love," Sasha quipped, quirking her left eyebrow. "Be patient with him, it might not look like it, but he _is_ working his way back to you and Frankie. In the only way he knows how."

Kara nodded softly and blinked a few times. "I really hope you're right. Lately it feels like all I do is make it worse. I try and give him space, don't pry—but he still won't tell me what's going on in his head. Half the time, it's like he's not even here. I don't know what will happen when I go back to the James, and he's cleared for missions again." Her tone was sullen, a little bitter, and Sasha looked down, trying to suppress the guilt she harbored for her part in all this.

"You guys remind me of us—right people, tough circumstances."

Kara snorted, "I don't think you and the Admiral got pregnant on a ship in the same command."

Sasha was prepared for that retort and paused, raising her left eyebrow as her eyes twinkled with amusement. "Not quite—but he was my superior officer." Kara's mouth fell open, and she blinked rapidly, the implication coloring her incredulous, and she absently noted that Danny's guess had been right all along. The ease with which their Captain had accepted the relationship after the vaccine trials suddenly made a lot more sense. His leniency on her punishment, all of it clicked into place. "Can't help who you fall in love with. Frat rules be dammed." Sasha quirked her brow.

Kara's mouth quirked downward at the corners, and she nodded, raising her glass to Sasha. "That, I can drink to," she agreed before knocking the amber liquid back, wincing as it burned a fiery path down her throat.

* * *

Russ whistled one long sharp tone over the noise of the group drawing their attention. In a few short moments, the music was paused, and everyone gathered in the living room. He beamed at the faces before him, unexpectedly emotional when he considered how hard they'd all fought to be here. Remembering the sacrifices and strife it had taken to enjoy something as simple as a birthday party again.

"Alright, where are my birthday people at?" he called, his warm timbre echoing around the room. Ashley poked her head out from behind Burk and stepped forward, tugging the ends of her sweater to cover her hands in a nervous gesture. Russ smiled encouragingly at her and inclined his head at Tom, who was still lingering by the fireplace. "You too, Admiral." Mike clapped him on the back and pushed him forward, taking the beer out of Tom's hand as he did it. When Tom had sauntered over, he put his arm around Ashely as they stood at the center of the room.

"I know you're not much into speeches—we'll have more than our share of those in a few short weeks," Russ started, earning a few appreciative nods and chuckles from the crowd before he continued. "So I'll keep it simple. Each of us is blessed to be here today. Family is what you make it, and I could not be more humbled to stand here with you all. Nor could I be more honored to serve amongst you."

"Here here," Mike called, raising his bottle. Russ nodded once in acknowledgment at him.

"So, without further a do—Ashely, Admiral—" On cue, Sasha and Kara appeared from the kitchen, each carrying cakes. Danny set down a small table in front of Tom and Ashely, and they placed them down, candles dancing wildly in the shifting air.

" _Happy Birthday to you,"_ Russ started the group off, and they enthusiastically joined in. Sasha watched as Tom leaned closer, inspecting the design. The frosting made it resemble an AARP card, in-fact, it was an exact replica, right down to the membership number, and he barked with laughter when he read it. ' _123UROLD'_ signed off with ' _Happy 50_ _th_ _Birthday'_ at the bottom. He looked up at Sasha, catching the shit-eating grin she was giving him as she sang. Tom tipped his head, mouthing the word "cute" silently.

Sasha winked back, trying to ignore the palpitation of her heart. All of a sudden, she was struck by how happy and carefree he looked. How easy his wide smile was. How beautifully his cheeks dimpled. In an instant, she was thrust back almost two decades, when her only concern had been how to stop crushing on her distractingly handsome instructor, and a sense of profound peace settled upon her. Tom didn't have time to interpret Sasha's expression because the drawn-out notes of _"youuuu"_ rang through the room, signifying his need to blow out the candles. When the claps, cheers, and commotion died down enough for him to glance over to her again, the look was gone.

* * *

Sometime close to midnight, Sam was regretting not taking a nap in the car. His eyes drooped heavily—sated from the overabundance of food and cake he'd dutifully consumed. Wolf laughed at him when he walked by to re-join Azima on the dancefloor, and Sam could only half muster a nod in response, sinking deeper into the cushions of the sofa.

They were swaying gently together. Tom's left hand in the small of her back, and his right holding hers against his chest. Sasha had kicked off her boots a while ago, and her toes dug into the rug's soft fibers as they danced. A variety of genres had played throughout the evening, but as with any respectable party, the time for overplayed love ballads and clichéd classics had come. Sasha laughed in a soft breath as the familiar notes of that stupid James Blunt song floated through the room, recalling how inescapable it had been.

She felt Tom's chest reverberate against her cheek as he spoke, "Oh come on, how can you not love this song?" he teased. Guiding them in a small circle perfectly on tempo.

"You can't be serious," she drawled, pulling her head back to catch his expression. Tom looked down at her, a gentle smile at his lips, eyes narrowed slightly with the effects of the alcohol they'd both consumed. A playfulness twinkled in the depths of blue.

" _I saw an angel, of that I'm sure. She smiled at me on the subway. She was with another man!"_ He sang, dipping her suddenly for dramatic effect. Sasha's bemused laughter filled his ears, and she let out a startled but gleeful yelp when he lowered her. She relaxed quickly once she figured out what was going on, secure as ever that he wouldn't let her fall. Tom held her there for a few moments, no longer singing, rather admiring how beautiful she was, and Sasha felt a blush creep up her neck. He drew her up again, and she shook her head in amusement.

"I don't even know where to begin." Smile evident in her voice, unsure whether to be more shocked that he knew the words or that he appeared to _like_ it.

A boyish smirk pulled at Tom's lips. "It's not so bad," he replied—coy. "You pretend not to be, but you know you're a hopeless romantic," Tom teased. Sasha's mouth fell open, and she scoffed though the smirk told him her offense was sarcastic in nature.

"Says the Admiral singing you're beautiful to his wife in front of his sailors." Her right eyebrow lifted as she tried to goad him into conceding, but he didn't react. Merely drew his hand away from her back to palm the side of her jaw instead—his fingers sliding through her smooth hair and resting there.

"The Admiral is about to kiss his wife in front of his sailors," he warned, giving her but a fraction of a second to react before capturing her lips in a loving kiss.

* * *

Mike watched from the rear porch as he puffed on a cigar, a reserved smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he saw Tom dip Sasha. The sounds of her laughter floated through the open french doors before being lost to the night. It was cool, dew settling and glistening as it clung to the blades of grass and wooden decking. A head of strawberry blonde appeared in his peripheral, Andrea, and he inclined his head tightly at her in greeting. Not missing the reflection of everything he was feeling written across her face.

They'd all lost people. All known the darkness and despair. Some, years before the Red-Flu—like Russ. Others, quickly – like him, not one day after Captain Chandler uncovered the ugly truth from their scientist. Some, like Tom, knew their families were still out there, waiting for their return. But others, too many others like Andrea, had no news from home. Had nothing but blind faith to carry them through, only to learn the devastating truth upon docking in Norfolk. Everything they held dear was gone.

Some days, Mike still lived in that limbo. Almost convinced that if he just waited a little bit longer, he'd be spared. That Christine and his girls would suddenly reach out to him as if from thin air. Despite logic, reason, and fact—he still hoped. Andrea understood that better than anyone. It was the reason he hated downtime. Why he kept busy, why he didn't like to linger too long as others moved forward with their lives, and he stayed stuck. Stuck replaying the awful conversation he'd last had with his wife, the months of fighting before his departure. The fact that in hindsight, it had been petty and insignificant and the fact that he'd cut off his right arm with a dull knife just to see them again.

Andrea gave him a soft smile, her round blue eyes kind and empathetic because she, too, was feeling a little melancholy. "Doesn't get any easier does it," she commented quietly, sipping from a glass of water.

Mike swallowed against the lump in his throat, his teeth clicking as he sighed. "No." It was quiet, softer than his usual bravado. Andrea nodded softly, noticing the glassiness of his eyes. She reached a hand out discreetly, covering his fingers with her own—surprised by just how nervous she felt. Not realizing that she was afraid of his rejection until she'd done it. Until she'd felt her breath hitch and her heartbeat increase as she waited for him to respond. Mike's fingers twitched, a moment of indecision sweeping him before he turned his palm and took her hand.

They stayed that way in silence, observing the happy couples dancing together though Mike's attention was now drawn to the petite woman beside him. Andrea's soft hum of approval and wistful expression when Tom kissed Sasha, warming him in a way that it hadn't before. His eyes softened, crow's feet wrinkling at the corners. Perhaps it was time to think about moving on.


	14. Chapter 14

**Friday, June 23** **rd** **, 2017** — **St. Louis, Missouri**

"Ash, Sam!?" Tom called through the open door. It was hot, it was humid, and he was getting impatient. Not a winning combination. Possibly the only saving grace was the fact that Sasha was wearing yoga pants, and they made her ass look great. He admired it as she floated past him, arms laden with a few last-minute supplies – bottles of water, phone chargers, and some snacks for the journey. He patted her behind, firm enough to sting a little but not to hurt, and Sasha snapped her head around quickly, shaking her head with a breathy laugh when he simply winked at her. He was leaning casually against the hood of his truck, smirking.

"Ew," Ashely said, having arrived just in time to see it. Her footfalls were heavy as she dutifully climbed into the backseat of the truck, slamming the door with more force than was necessary. Tom rolled his eyes and put his sunglasses on. He opened the passenger door for Sasha, holding a few of the items while she settled herself before handing them back for her to organize.

Ashely's meltdown yesterday, when she'd been forced to say goodbye to Justin, had been epic as much as it was dramatic, and he was done with the attitude. She'd only be gone for six months before graduating and starting college. Likely in St. Louis, though her moods seemed to change as much as the wind these days, everything was subject to reversal when it came to her.

"You have everything buddy?" Tom asked as Sam approached; he simply nodded, climbing into the backseat. Sam was also tired of Ashley's bitch-fits as he so lovingly called them. Something he'd been reprimanded heavily for. Tom handed Sasha the keys to turn on the AC while he went to do a final walkthrough of the house. They were Norfolk bound, having found a nice home close to their old stomping grounds. They'd decided to relocate the Naval Academy to the existing colleges there. Much of the old academy had been destroyed during the outbreak and subsequent instability, and with their still limited manpower, it made more sense to relocate than to rebuild. Strategically and geographically, Norfolk still made the most sense to function as a joint task force and training center in conjunction with Southern Command.

Recruitment efforts for all four branches were in full force. Fundraisers, press briefings, galas—you name it. The President had the heroes of the Nathan James working double-time to drum up support for their armed forces. There were even talks of a book amongst the seemingly endless interviews that they'd all rather avoid. School curriculums across the country were churning out students at sixteen instead of eighteen. President Oliver was even forming the beginnings of a congress, something between the State system of old and Michener's regional leadership model.

All things considered, they were making progress. The famine declared officially beaten one-month prior, global crops now at a sustainable level, and the fuel treaty holding steady. The Michener was two months from completion, a hodgepodge of retrofitted parts that would form an amphibious assault ship and become the flagship of the new fleet. A command that Tom intended to give to Garnett, along with a promotion to the rank of Captain. Their first set of new sailors were set to join the James for training soon, and though he hadn't voiced it yet – the concept of retirement had started percolating in his mind again. Maybe in a couple more years, once they'd churned out a few more classes of sailors and fully established operations at the command centers.

Sasha watched as Tom closed the door, leaving the keys in an envelope under the mat for their landlord to collect. Never one for attachments to places, having moved so consistently for her entire adult life, she wasn't sad to see it go. It had served a purpose—most all of the homes in the neighborhood were used by the administration to house personnel and their families. An annex of sorts and it had never truly felt like "theirs." Just a pit-stop until they inevitably moved on. Norfolk, though, was the closest thing to a home next to Charleston she'd ever had.

"All set?" she asked when Tom climbed in, taking a moment to appreciate the golden tan he'd developed over the past few days spent loading things onto their trailer.

"Yep," he confirmed, reaching his hand behind the headrest as he reversed out of the driveway.

They were several hours into the fourteen-hour trip; both kids fast asleep in the back. Sasha attempting but failing to do the same. Tom's hand squeezed her thigh slightly where it rested – a silent question. He could feel the tension in her body, practically hear her overthinking, though she reminded perfectly silent. Sasha exhaled softly, opening her eyes and letting her head roll to the side to look at him.

He glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the road. "What's going on?"

"Thinking about Brown," her tone was careful. Controlled, though the regret was evident and unspoken between them. His thumb stroking over her leg served as his response—understated, quiet, yet enough, because she knew he understood. His eyes narrowed slightly as he thought back, remembering the night.

* * *

_The sound of the sat phone buzzing pulled him from sleep, and not three seconds after he registered it, did the icy implication strike fear into his soul. A brief glance at the clock on the bedstand told him it was a little after three. Something had gone wrong. No one would call at this hour otherwise. Within two rings, he'd snatched the phone from the table and clicked, breath frozen while he awaited a voice on the other end._

_The words she'd planned to say stuck in the back of her throat, and instead of a greeting, she took a shaky breath. The scenarios racing through Tom's mind didn't bear thinking about when he heard it._

" _Sasha?" he questioned urgently._

 _It snapped her out of the momentary stupor, the fear in his voice urging her to respond. To set his mind at ease. "I'm here, I'm okay_ — _" her breath hitched, and she broke off. Simultaneously, the abstract panic settled in Tom's gut gave way to floods of relief, short-lived, however, when he realized that while she might be physically okay, she sounded off. She sounded exactly like someone who'd just watched a person die._

" _What happened?" he asked carefully, sitting upright in the bed and leaning his back against the headboard._

" _Brown. We lost Brown." It was quiet, laden with failure, and Tom pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened to her careful breathing on the other end._

" _I'm sorry, Sash," he sighed, the silent ache of her absence growing in intensity._

" _I've never_ — _" she started before coming to an abrupt stop. Unsure of how to effectively communicate that she'd never been responsible for sending someone to their death before. This was her operation, her team, and he'd died on her watch. She'd meant it all those years ago when she'd told Tom she ran solo. Never had to bear the weight of responsibility the way he did. Until now._

_His eyes narrowed as he tried to decipher what she meant with so few words before it finally dawned on him. Tom clenched his jaw, trying to process a response – to think of something that might help, yet failing because it was too shallow of a wish. He still struggled with the weight of the dead and the ghosts that haunted him, and no number of platitudes would change that. Sasha heard a long exhale, and she knew he'd figured it out._

" _Franklin Benz was the first," Tom told her gently. "He was exposed during a refueling mission. Took his own life, right in front of us. I ordered him on that cruise ship, but I couldn't make him put the gun down_ — _he disobeyed me." His tone was regretful. Flat._

" _Frankie?" her question was somewhat breathless as she made the connection to Danny's son._

" _Frankie." Tom confirmed. A beat of silence passed between them before he continued. "You always remember the first." Sasha swallowed, considering his words for what they were. The simple truth, and somehow_ — _it was exactly what she'd needed from him._

" _It's the job," she repeated his words from the James, and he tucked his chin down to his chest._

" _It's the job," he confirmed, eyes narrowing as a lump settled itself in his throat. Another beat of silence lay between them, companionable in nature, while she gathered her thoughts._

" _I miss you," she breathed, voicing the words usually left unspoken. Words they avoided in favor of more productive sentiments like, 'I'll be home soon,' or 'Be safe,' but tonight, she needed to say it. Thankful that she still had that luxury. They'd come close today, too close. Not that she'd ever let him find out just how narrow their escape had been. Part of the reason Sasha had slipped away from the others upon reaching the safe house. The need to hear his voice overwhelming prevalent over the dozen other things she had left to do._

_Tom blinked a few times, "I know, baby. Me too." He sighed, his eyes wandering of their own volition to the empty space beside him. The sheets still neat and perfectly made, amplifying her absence. "How much longer will you stay?"_

" _Not long, it's getting too hot now. Probably best to move up our timeline." She mused quietly, and the pit of ill-ease gnawed at his gut. She heard the mattress shift under his weight as he threw his legs over the side of the bed. No use pretending sleep would come now._

_Sasha sighed as she spoke, "I'm sorry I woke you."_

" _Don't be. You can call me anytime_ — _you know that." And she did, she really did. Knew from the kids that he had that sat phone practically attached to his hip whenever she left. Just waiting for her to call_ — _never letting it ring more than twice before he picked up._

 _Sasha swallowed. Her back was pressed against the weathered wood of their ramshackle safe house, splinters snagging on her vest. Slowly, she tipped her head toward the sky, observing the stars. Twilight would come soon to take them away, an hour or so sooner than it would for him_ — _but for now, they were both blanketed by darkness. Sasha could feel the pull of wanting to stay on the phone with him indefinitely_ — _even in silence. Just to hear the sound of his breathing on the other end, and she pursed her lips._

" _Tom_ — _" she stopped herself again, closing her eyes tightly. Clenched her jaw because the longing in her tone caught her off guard, and she couldn't allow herself to drown right now. This was neither the time nor the place to wax lyrical about her love for him. About how lucky they were to have each other still. Something she thought about increasingly as of late. Tom squinted, his lips parting as she left whatever she'd meant to say unsaid._

_Sasha found control again and pushed herself away from the wall. "I'll be home soon, okay?" The moment effectively gone, and he drew his lips together again tightly. Tucking his head a little._

" _Okay," he responded, knowing he had less than ten seconds left with her before she was gone._

" _I love you," she said, rendering silent the part of her that wasn't ready to let him go yet._

_His voice was tender as he responded. "I love you too, baby. Be safe," and she bit her lip because he really only called her that when he knew it was bad. Even if she wasn't capable of voicing it herself. Sasha forced herself to hang-up, taking a few seconds before she put herself back in the game, and strode with purpose into the house._

_Tom lingered long after the call. The sat phone back on the bedside table and her wedding band between his fingers instead. Brooding, as Sasha labeled it, while he twirled the metal methodically in his hands and thought of her. For all his paranoia about missions, that phone call had all but confirmed his gut feeling about this one._

_Tom was reasonably sure he'd almost lost her tonight, and that thought terrified him._

* * *

**Tuesday, August 8** **th** **, 2017** — **USS Nathan James, Mayport, Florida**

"Admiral Slattery," Kara greeted her Captain with a nod as she stood next to him on the Bridge. Now that Garnett was Captain of the Michener and Maylen promoted Vice Chief of Naval Operations, the James needed an XO. A position Chandler and Slattery saw fit to give to her. In fact, a little birdie had told her that their CNO intended to promote her to Captain just as soon as their second destroyer was retrofitted. The USS, Michael O'Connor.

They were headed on a weapons training mission with their newest group of wide-eyed, young, eager recruits, and Kara was reminded in an instant of everything she'd loved about the Navy.

"Commander Green," he nodded back in greeting, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. "Why don't you do the honors?" She smiled softly, eyes twinkling with happiness as she addressed their crew.

"OOD, set a course for our coordinates, all ahead flank," she commanded, the rush of pride swelling within her chest and reflected on Slattery's face.

* * *

**Thursday, September 14** **th** **, 2017** — **USNORTHCOM, Norfolk, Virginia**

Tom was working in his office, commissioning plans for the fleet, when his assistant drew his attention. A sharp and urgent knock at the door rang out, and immediately, he knew something was wrong by her flushed appearance and insistent entrance.

"Excuse me, Sir. I have an urgent communication from the White House," she strode over to the desk, somewhat breathless having almost run from the communications center where she'd been summoned not three minutes ago. Tom took the file in silence, flipping it open and scanning its contents. His jaw went slack, and his eyes widened.

"I need a plane to St. Louis," he instructed.

"Yes, Sir," she responded, and he inclined his head in a subtle nod. Eyes watching as she made haste down the hallway to hail General Kirk. Tom glanced at his watch, snapping the file shut, along with his laptop, which he secured and locked in his top drawer.

A few minutes later, in the adjacent wing, he spied Sasha through the open blinds of her office. The small smile on her face upon seeing him short-lived when she registered his expression, and she stood reflexively. Her fingers splayed on the desk before her, touching it with just the tips—giving her some sort of purchase as she waited with bated breath to find out what was wrong.

Tom closed the door, and subsequently, the blinds quickly after he entered. Not more than a beat of silence passing between them before he informed her, "POTUS was declared dead as of ten-minutes ago."

Sasha blinked, her mouth falling open in shock. " _What?_ " she breathed, completely flabbergasted.

"He had a heart attack. Paramedics pronounced him dead when they arrived on scene, Chief of Staff wants me in St. Louis to assist. They'll be making a statement to the press within the hour," he rounded off calmly, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Sasha's eyebrow quirked slightly as the shock played out across her face. This was the worst possible timing—Oliver had her scheduled on a Diplomatic Mission to China. She was due to leave tomorrow—she'd have to as Debbie to watch the kids. Tom's eyes followed her as she stepped around the desk, coming to stop before him, arms crossed across her chest.

"When are you leaving?"

"Soon as I find a plane—Amanda's working on that now. I'm gonna swing by the house, grab a bag of clothes, but I wanted to say goodbye first."

"Uh, yeah—okay," she acknowledged. Distracted while her mind scrambled with the ramifications of what losing Oliver would do to their progress. Sasha liked him. He was a fair, just, and competent leader who was respected not only amongst their peers but key foreign leaders as well. Tom stepped forward, drawing her lips to his in a short but firm kiss, and her hands reflexively came to rest on his biceps as he did.

"I'll call you when I can?" he said quietly, the pad of his thumb caressing her cheek.

Sasha nodded her head. "Go. I love you," she told him, leaning forward to give him one last kiss—ever mindful of the fact that at any moment, her own assistant would likely arrive with the same news.

"Love you too, be safe."

* * *

"Ash? Come quick. Dad's on the TV," Sam yelled from the living room. Sasha rounded the kitchen island, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, and turned the volume up. They were assembled outside of the doors of the President's Office, the Chief of Staff front and center prepared to give an address to the press junkets. Sasha glanced at Ashely, who joined her in standing behind the couch, the grim expression mirroring her own.

" _Good evening. As you are all now aware, President Howard Oliver suffered a fatal heart attack this afternoon while serving in office. It is a great loss for our country. A loss that comes as a shock to many, but for those who were close, his untimely passing serves as a stark reminder to us all of the work still left to be done. Howard Oliver's death was preventable. The result of a heart disease that was easily managed prior to the pandemic with a simple, widely available medication. Had such access to life-saving medications not been stalled by foreign nations, particularly those in Asia, I would not be standing before you today delivering this tragic news."_

Sasha raised an impressed eyebrow and quired her head slightly. Kelly had always been a spitfire, but calling China out directly for their ongoing spat was a ballsy move—even for her.

" _President Oliver leaves behind a legacy of healing. A legacy of hope. His actions, before taking office, as the Mayor of St. Louis, saved hundreds of thousands of lives. His courage, and tenacity in the face of an attempted Coup, along with the leadership of Admiral Chandler, delivered this country from the brink of collapse."_

Sasha watched as Tom looked down at the floor upon mention of his name. His eyes narrowing slightly, almost imperceptibly, before he returned his gaze reticently to the press assembled before them.

" _His subsequent handling of the aftermath, and shortly thereafter the global famine, will stand throughout history as nothing short of extraordinary. This administration intends to continue executing his vision and honoring his legacy with the utmost transparency through this difficult transition. To that effect, Vice President Joshua Reiss is en-route to the White House as we speak, where Judge Gross will administer the oath of office, live, in front of you all. Admiral Chandler, along with myself and other key members of the cabinet are on hand to bring Vice President Reiss up to speed quickly. Secretary of Press Garcia will be releasing details regarding services for President Oliver tomorrow, and in the meantime, we can assure you that our progress will continue. Thank you."_

A plethora of voices assaulted them upon the end of Kelly's speech. Each one drowning out the other in a gaggle of noise, camera flashes now going wild illuminating.

" _Ms. Hansley! Will this administration continue the tradition of rolling terms without an election that we saw after Michener?" A reporter called, loud enough to break through the crowd and be heard._

Sasha scoffed quietly and shook her head. Crossing her arms across her body as Ashely looked over curiously by her side.

" _We intend to do everything we can to ensure a smooth transition – as you all know, President Oliver was working on re-establishing congress because he felt strongly that the people of this country deserve to be heard. Both locally, and federally. We plan to continue toward achieving that goal, but in the meantime, we are following the line of succession as set forth by the constitution." She deflected easily._

" _What about Admiral Chandler? Surely your administration knows the importance of leadership we can trust – especially in light of recent failures. The people know nothing about Vice President Reiss. Where was he when the Red-Rust hit? During the pandemic? He wasn't even a member of cabinet until three months ago." The reporter continued, undeterred._

Tom glanced at Kelly and stepped forward, affixing the charm he could possess to shut that train of thought down.

" _While I'm flattered that you'd suggest I run for President, I can assure you that won't be happening. I intend to give the Vice President a chance to prove himself, and I'd ask that you all do the same."_

"They want Dad to be President?" Sam asked, his tone hard to decipher, something between apprehension and astonishment at the prospect. If he thought it was hard being Tom Chandler's son now, it would be nothing compared to being the son of the President of the United States.

"He won't do it. He's there now for credibility. So people can see that he's part of the transition, and it won't end up like last time." Sasha assured him gently. Catching Ashley listening intently from the corner of her eye.

"So can we move back to St. Louis then? If Dad has to be there to help the new President, it doesn't make sense to stay here." Ashely suggested, and Sasha looked down. Biting her lip slightly to hide the smirk—sometimes tact was not her strong suit.

"I hate to burst your bubble, but he'll only be there for a few weeks at the most," Sasha said an amused but regretful expression on her face as she watched the indignation settle back into Ashley's stance.

"Whatever—I'm going back to my room. This stuff is boring anyway," she mumbled.

Sam rolled his eyes from the couch and shook his head in exasperation, which Sasha caught. She sighed. Seems like she would be doing damage control on all fronts, both professionally and personally. Wouldn't be surprised if Kelly's jab toward Asia had officially canceled the meeting she'd been brokering for months now.

* * *

It was late when Tom called. Sasha was propped up in their bed, clearing out the explosion in her inbox. "Hey," she answered flatly.

" _That bad, huh?"_

It caught her, and she huffed out a breath, a small smile pulling at her lips. Not particularly surprised that he so easily deciphered her mood with one word. "Well, I won't be going to China tomorrow. So that's one less thing to worry about, I suppose." The cynicism not lost on him.

" _Ah, the comment Hansley made?"_

"Mmm," she hummed in confirmation, lips tight with tension. "What about you? How is Reiss? I only met him once in passing." The sigh she heard on the other end of the phone telling her most of what she needed to know.

" _Cocky. Needs some work."_

Sasha scoffed slightly, shaking her head in exasperation as she worked her jaw in a circle to dispel some frustration. "Every goddamn time, Tom. One step forward, two steps back." The words tasted bitter.

" _How are the kids?"_ he asked, changing the subject.

"One of them's worried you're running for President, and the other is using this as an excuse to pitch moving back. I'll let you figure out which one's which." Her tone was wry, and she heard him laugh softly under his breath.

" _Sounds about right."_

* * *

**Friday, September 22** **nd** **, 2017** — **White House, St. Louis, Missouri**

The weather was muggy, humid, and oppressively hot, hovering around 95 degrees. Sporadic clouds provided some relief from the beating sun, but for the most part, it was miserable—present event aside. Tom walked dutifully with the procession, the wool of his uniform suppressive and itchy. He'd been on the hook for a speech—yet another eulogy that failed to effectively capture all that they'd lost since this hell began.

Sasha was floating somewhere, cautious as ever to remain discreet. Had spied her unmistakable stance near the back of the crowd from his place atop the podium, seemingly having materialized from thin air. Something she managed remarkably well. He still hadn't figured that out—how she could simultaneously capture attention by merely walking into a room yet remain conspicuously missing from every photograph, broadcast, or article. Like a ghost, _or a spook_ , he reminded himself.

Finally, the procession of mourners reached the steps of the White House, having laid President Oliver to rest in the gardens. His casket buried beside Michener and Rachel. The parallels not lost on him. His mind forever haunted by the ghosts of bullet holes long since patched. Even so morbid as to wander for months which room Sasha was in when her sat phone caught that gut shot. When he'd come within two inches of ordering her death – the thought still eliciting a chill down his spine.

Tom loaded a plate of food, thankful for the brief respite from the seemingly endless number of people who wanted face time with him. As was her proclivity, she appeared. Graceful, and silent as ever—using the guise of getting food for them to have an inconspicuous conversation.

Tom looked at her from the corner of his eye, finding her returning the gesture with the ghost of a smile upon her lips. Discretely he looked her over, appreciating the fitted, high neck cap-sleeved dress she wore. Yet another piece from her pre-pandemic wardrobe that he'd never seen before. Her hair was in a sleek ponytail, and she was wearing gold bar earrings that made his fingers itch to touch her impossibly long neck. Actually, the neanderthal of his brain wanted nothing more than to place a hand in the curve of her back, just so people would know she was his.

"You didn't have to come," he said softly, though he was glad she was here. Despite his insistence that this wouldn't send him into the depths of self-loathing again, he couldn't deny his discomfort. Nor the guilt that he didn't think would ever truly be gone.

Her glance was coy as she spoke, "And miss seeing these women throw themselves at you at a funeral?" earning her the brash chuckle and half-smirk she'd wanted. No need to discuss the elephant in the room—there'd be plenty of time to unpack baggage later in private.

"You're not exactly unpopular yourself," he reminded her lightly, and she looked down, suppressing her smile while she continued to place food on her plate. They moved down the buffet, stealing glances at each other, and she took her opportunity when he reached for a napkin—allowing her fingers to brush his for a fraction of a second as she did the same. Tom's breath hitched almost silently, a jolt of longing working its way excruciatingly through his heart. Suddenly struck by how much he wanted to hold her. To be a normal man who could greet his wife with a kiss after not seeing her for a week. They straightened at the same time, finally turning to face each other. Plates and Napkins in hand and her eyes became serious, soft as she spoke.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." It was quiet, uttered so only he could hear, and Tom had to clench his jaw to stop himself from saying he loved her. Forced instead to tell her with his eyes. They lingered for as long as was safe before Sasha smiled regretfully, wetting her bottom lip and dipping her eyes unconsciously.

"Admiral," she said in parting, excusing herself just in time for Secretary Fuller to approach. The heat of Tom's gaze following her retreat into the crowd as she went.


	15. Chapter 15

**Thursday, February 14th, 2018—Virginia Beach, Virginia**

"Exactly how did you talk me into this again?" Tom griped, rubbing his hands together as they ran in an effort to dispel the biting chill in the air. His breath puffed out before him, clouds of moisture disappearing into the air. The sound of the ocean beside them the only indication of its presence for the thickness of the morning fog yet to burn off.

Sasha let out a laugh, breathless and punctuated by their synchronized strides through the sand. "You told me you'd take me on a Valentines date. My choice," she reminded him easily—humoring him.

"And I thought you'd pick something normal, like dinner—or drinks," he grumbled, noting the pain in his hip from that damn plate and lamenting the fact that he was officially getting old. Everything hurt for a lot longer than it did when he was in his thirties, that was for sure—and the cold certainly didn't help.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me this doesn't bring back memories," she teased, turning to look at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Recalling how often she'd landed herself an extra four-mile run down the beach in addition to her regular PT requirements.

Tom smirked a lopsided smile. "Those were supposed to dissuade you from disobeying my orders, not the other way round."

He heard the smile in her voice as she responded. "Then perhaps you shouldn't have insisted on doing them with me."

"If I hadn't, you wouldn't have done them." He responded winded, though they both knew it was far from the truth.

Sasha scoffed. "Admit it. You enjoyed the alone time as much as I did," her tone was low, almost sing-song, as she smirked at him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he lied, lungs starting to burn as they hit the second mile. He glanced down at his watch, wincing slightly at the pace she was keeping—close to seven minutes flat. It dawned on him then too that she was going easy on him, her breathing still even and controlled. Probably a sign that he should pick up the cardio and start joining her more frequently on her morning runs.

"Still have three miles left Admiral, you sure you're gonna make it?" she quipped, catching the way he glanced at his watch in her peripheral.

"Give me a little credit," he complained. He wasn't completely desk-ridden yet—just hated cardio. Mostly stuck to weights. Though he was loathe to admit it, the pessimist in him wouldn't let it all go. Not when there was a very good chance trouble would find them again. Call it a gut feeling.

"Credit isn't going to get you through the program," she drolled, throwing a comment he'd made years ago back at him.

Tom whistled in response, making a _whew_ sound, the chuckle evident as he spoke. "How long have you been waiting to use that one?" Sasha smiled at him then, all teeth, dimples, and rosy pink cheeks—ice blue piercing as ever even in the early morning light.

"Like I said, brings back memories." She wagged her eyebrows and picked up the pace, pushing him to try and keep up.

Sam was almost done with breakfast by the time they made it back home. Sasha's laughter carried through the open concept floor plan to his seat at the kitchen island. The home they'd chosen was modern, sleek, and sophisticated—kind of like Sasha, and much different from the classic colonial-esque houses Sam was used to. Truth be told, he was still adjusting. Ashely was officially living in St. Louis, attending her first year of college, and while it was cool at first to have the run of the house, he was starting to miss her being around.

Though he'd never voice it because he didn't want his Dad to feel bad, sometimes it was lonely eating by himself at dinner when they worked late. From an outside perspective, it didn't make much sense since everything seemed to be getting better, but Sasha was gone on missions more than she was home, and though his Dad tried, he was clearly distracted when she wasn't there. Worried.

"Morning, Buddy," Tom said as they came into view. Sasha un-hooked her thumbs from her running jacket and shrugged it off, suddenly sweltering now they'd stepped into the warm.

"Where'd you guys go?" Sam asked curiously. He'd assumed they were already at work when he'd awoken to an empty house.

"For a run on the beach," Sasha said enthusiastically, smiling brightly at Tom, who still looked a little winded. Sam made an unpleasant expression; waking up at 6 am to go running sounded like his personal version of hell.

"She kicked my ass," Tom grumbled, walking over to the fridge to grab some water.

"You guys are weird," Sam responded, going back to his group text and typing out a response.

* * *

**Wednesday, July 6th, 2018—USNORTHCOM, Norfolk, Virginia**

Ashely crossed her legs impatiently, her foot bobbing up and down with increasing vigor as the minutes passed and her Dad _still_ hadn't left his meeting. Sasha was nowhere to be found, and she wasn't supposed to chat with her anyway at the office. They were still pretending like they weren't married, which frankly, presented its own challenges. She'd wanted them to come to a firework show in St. Louis—instead, she was in Norfolk. There were no fireworks, and they were having a BBQ because they didn't do things together in public with large groups of people. Ashley was beginning to think they were paranoid—the world was getting back to normal, yet they were still acting like it was before.

To top it off, she wasn't allowed her cell phone. It was checked in with security downstairs, and there was nothing to pass the time. She sighed in an exaggerated manner and made the decision to just wait for him at home. Clearly, this meeting was more important than their lunch date. Tom spotted her through the glass just as she got up and excused himself briefly.

"Ash?" he called, and she whirled around to face him. The ire clear in her stance and her tone.

"Forget it, Dad. You're busy—it's fine. I'll see you at home," she dismissed, turning abruptly and walking down the hall, giving him no time to respond. Tom closed his eyes, deflating as the guilt gnawed at him, shaking his head slightly before he returned to the meeting. He'd have to apologize to her at dinner.

Not five minutes later, Sasha slipped in, her usually cool demeanor a little excited, though not in a good way, as she handed out the dossiers she'd just finished preparing. As she handed the file to him, her head tipped slightly—a silent question over the stony expression he wore.

"We have a problem," she started, pulling her eyes away reluctantly to address the room. "I spoke with SOUTHCOMM—the rebels in Columbia are joining with the army. This man," she tossed down a photograph, "General Hector Martinez, has been making some waves with our partners. Threatening that if they don't cooperate in inviting the _Gran Columbian Empire_ to the table, they'll see themselves cut out of future trade deals." She paused, raising her left eyebrow.

"Anyone taking him seriously?" Tom asked, turning to the next profile in the dossier—though there was no photograph, just a name, Gustavo Barros.

"Arias. Apparently, they know about our involvement in Panama—"

Tom's eyes shot up from the paper he'd been studying, meeting Sasha's across the table. She was doing her best to remain completely detached from that information, but the look they shared briefly confirmed his suspicions that she was just as unsettled.

"They're set to meet at a leadership summit later this month. Along with the rest of Central America and Cuba," Sasha continued, tone wary.

"We need eyes in that meeting," Hughes interjected, closing her own dossier where she remained seated at the table.

Sasha nodded once at her in agreement. "I have some assets in-country I can scramble. Have them assigned to the wait staff."

Tom crossed his arms, sighing heavily, pondering the information. "I'll take this to the commander in chief, he's gonna need to reel Arias back in. What do you think their play is?" looking up again to make eye contact with Sasha.

She tightened her lips, eyebrows raising as she half shrugged. "Beats me, Gustavo and Hector make strange bedfellows. Until now, Gustavo's reach was centered to a few local villages—calls himself a leader of the people. Takes from the rich, gives to the poor—"

"Just your garden variety Robin Hood," Hughes surmised, sarcasm heavy in her words. The corner of Sasha's mouth pulled in the ghost of a smirk.

"It's hard to say. For now, it seems like he wants to use the Columbian Military to further his agenda of bringing prosperity to the people. Only way to do that is to be taken seriously in trade negotiations." Sasha finished, crossing her own arms and mirroring his stance unconsciously.

Tom's eyes narrowed slightly, and he looked down again. Drawing his arms down slowly from his chest to thumb through the file again, pushing out Gustavo's profile with a finger across the table.

"Why does he care so much about the people? This says he's not even from Columbia," he asked, looking up again at Sasha. He saw a spark in her eye – one that he recognized whenever she became fixated on a problem—the endless determination to solve it, no matter how big the challenge.

"That's what I'm gonna find out," she told him as she turned her head to the side, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

* * *

Tom barely made it in time for dinner, thankful as ever that Sasha had managed to clear her schedule accordingly that afternoon and gone home to spend time with the kids. The table was already set, his plate laid out with the steaks she'd made along with a variety of sides in serving dishes for them to choose from.

"This looks great," he said, kissing the top of her head in greeting. He'd gone to change into more comfortable clothes before appearing in the main living space after rushing through the door.

"I had help," she mused, looking over at Ashely. Her face fell slightly, and a knot of anxiety balled in the pit of her stomach because she looked like she was about to explode.

Tom took his seat at the head of the table, his tone cautious as he addressed her. "Ash, I'm sorry about earlier. I was—"

She put her fork down more loudly than necessary, "Forget it, Dad. It's not like I expect any different," she said bitterly, and he swallowed. Not missing the way Sasha took a gulp of wine in an effort to avoid being drawn into the forthcoming argument.

"What's that supposed to mean?" his tone was careful.

Ashely scoffed, shaking her head in exasperation—ignoring Sam's wide-eyed stare and subtle shake of his head to not start something at the dinner table. "Are you serious right now? You couldn't even clear your lunch schedule when you've known for weeks I was coming!"

"I _had_ cleared my schedule—but this was a last-minute meeting that was urgent. I had to be there," he continued slowly, his hands clenching around his silverware unconsciously. Sasha looked between the two, quickly deducing that neither was about to back down.

"Come on guys—" she started, before Ashely interrupted, another scoff as she spoke.

"Whatever. You probably forgot like you do everything unless war barbie reminds y—"

"Hey!" Tom's tone was sharp, eyes widening in shock, effectively silencing the rest of her statement. He let his silverware clatter to the table, and Sasha scrunched her eyes closed tightly because of the landmine Ashely had just unknowingly walked into.

"Tom—" Sasha tried, wanting him to let the comment go and not to get bent out of shape over it. But he silenced her by holding up a finger, never letting his blazing gaze leave his daughter's defiant one.

"You need to apologize to Sasha— _now,_ " he commanded sternly, eyes thunderous betraying the low calm of his voice.

The anger bubbled hot, causing frustrated tears to burn behind her eyes—she hadn't meant for it to sound like that, more so that Sasha was perfect all the time, and she thought of them as the Barbie and Ken of the Navy. However, the fire over the fact that he seemed more upset about her comment than missing lunch took precedence. "You can't order me around!" she spat back instead, standing up rapidly. The chair let out an ugly sound as it scraped against the wooden floors.

"Why do you have to be such a Bitch?" Sam suddenly interjected, causing Tom to snap his head to look at his Son instead.

"Sam," he warned, though with less ferocity than the tone he'd used with her, and Ashley scoffed loudly again.

"So, he can call me a bitch but _I_ have to apologize?!"

Tom wasted no time in fixing her again with an icy glare before responding. " _Yes_. You wanna be angry at me? _Fine_ —but you are _way_ out of line," he warned, keenly aware of the look Sasha was giving him that implored him to cool it down, but this was something he wasn't interested in granting leniency on. Ashley could direct her piss poor attitude toward him all day, but he wouldn't stand for her directing it toward Sasha. Especially not by calling her names, and not when she'd done nothing to warrant it.

Ashely shook her head defiantly, crossing her arms tightly as tears pooled in her eyes. "You are unbelievable!" She turned, making a beeline for her old room, only for her Dad to burst out of his chair to follow her.

"Hey, get back here—we're not done talking," he yelled, and she whirled around just as his hand made contact with her arm, forcing her to face him.

She wrenched her arm free. The ire now explosive. " _No!_ You don't even listen!"

"To _what_ Ashley!? I'm sorry I missed lunch—what more do you want me to say?!" he was completely exasperated, voice cracking a little for the volume they were now bellowing at.

Hot angry tears were streaming down her face. "Nothing! You miss everything! You always do! Even Mom knew it—she had to remind you of everything important because all you ever cared about was work or whatever mission you were on. You didn't even remember her Birthday!"

And just like that, the fight left his body, the weight of her words set in. The realization that she was right. Darien's birthday was three weeks ago. He'd been so caught up at work, and Sasha on radio silence unexpectedly, delayed by two weeks that he'd completely spaced the importance of the date. Hadn't even looked at the calendar because he'd been so focused on why Vulture Team was AWOL.

Sasha's mouth fell open slightly, and she rose slowly from the table. The vitriol of Ashley's anger now dawning on her. She placed the napkin she'd set in her lap down carefully on the glass surface, while Sam mumbled, "I'm gonna eat in my room," before leaving the scene.

Tom's brow furrowed, expression now troubled instead of angered. "I'm _sorry_. I'm sorry your Mom died, and you got stuck with me." Sasha cringed as she listened to him say it, heard the guilt and regret in his voice.

Ashely sniffed, swallowing against the thick heavy lump in her throat, and fixed him with a cold stare. The need to shout evaporated and she spoke in a flat accusatory tone instead as she delivered her final blow. "And like always, you weren't there."

Tom froze, his eyes trailing off to look at the floor as one of his darkest fears was realized, she blamed him for Darien's death. The thought swirled in his mind, unrelenting and torturous in its weight. The guilt unbearable to the point that he wished the earth would swallow him whole.

" _Ashley!_ " Sasha breathed, her voice laden with disappointment and something she couldn't quite place. The two of them made eye contact, Sasha's expression acutely pained in contrast to Ashely's tumultuous one. It lasted for a few tense seconds before Ashley spun on her heel, the slam of the bedroom door echoing upon the surfaces of the house punctuating the event. Tom slowly backed away, sinking into the couch with his head in his hands.

Sasha shook her head, glancing up at the ceiling, lost as she inhaled heavily, trying to make sense of what the hell had just happened. Of how she was supposed to help mend the broken pieces, terrified that Tom might not come back from that comment. She clenched her jaw, trying to hold back the moisture in her eyes as she chanced a look at him. Her heart rolling painfully when she registered the blank, broken stare. A shiver ran down her spine over how vividly it reminded her of the look she'd seen after Shaw.

"Tom," she tried quietly, fumbling mentally over her next words because she knew nothing she said could undo the kind of pain he was in. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and sat next to him. Ran a hand through his hair and clutched the back of his neck. "It wasn't your fault." Voice a little more strangled than she'd intended. Her fingers moved to skim the side of his cheek, thumb rubbing over the cheekbone as he looked everywhere but at her. "You know it, and so does she."

Tom worked his jaw, hanging his head slightly. His hands clasped together loosely, while his elbows rested upon his knees, and he studied the fibers of the rug carpet in-front of him. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable and unworthy of the fact that she was trying her best to comfort him. Guilty, further still, because he didn't want it, yet he knew his rejection would hurt, and she didn't deserve that. Those old, self-loathing, and depreciating doubts magnifying ten-fold that told him he'd failed in his duties as a father and a husband. That he was still failing on that front and would never truly be the man that any of them deserved because of it.

Sasha swallowed thickly, her brows drawn together in a sad frown as she watched him punish himself for things he simply couldn't control. A trait she simultaneously loved and hated about him. _Noble to a fault._ She sighed, ducking her head, accepting that he wanted space—though he was too afraid of hurting her to say it. Settled instead for kissing his cheek and squeezing his shoulder as she got up to clear away the food.

* * *

Ashley's face was buried in her pillow when Sasha slipped into the room. The lights were off, and her eyes widened as they adjusted to the sliver of moonlight coming through the gap in the curtains. Walking silently, arms folded to the bed, she exhaled heavily.

"I don't know what to say to you right now," Sasha admitted, and Ashely hiccupped.

"I didn't mean to call you war barbie," came a muffled response, and Sasha blinked because that was the least of her concerns.

"I'm not worried about that. Not the first time I've heard it." Her response was even, a touch sullen and regretful. Ashley lifted her head then, frowning in confusion, and the moonlight was just enough for Sasha to catch it. "People used to call me that in training. He didn't like it much back then either." She elaborated. The teenager's eyes fell, appropriately admonished and ashamed for having made such a comment.

She was sincere when she spoke. "I'm sorry," to which Sasha only shook her head in deflection.

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to, and it's not really what you need to be sorry for either."

Ashley mulled over the words for a moment before admitting, "I was angry because he forgot her birthday, and I wanted to hurt him," the latter part of her confession mumbled with shame.

Sasha pursed her lips, nodding slowly as the ever-present lump in her throat flared. "Well, you did." Blunt, not pulling any punches this time. If Ashley was grown enough to live on her own, then she was grown enough to face the consequences of her actions and the weight of her words to her father.

"Did it make you feel better?" Sasha continued after a moment, her tone raising with a kind of sarcastic curiosity at the end. The way Ashley's lip wobbled, giving her satisfaction that the message had finally hit home.

Ashley shook her head, sniffed as a fresh wave of tears engulfed her. _"No,"_ and Sasha softened her stance slightly.

"He's human, Ashley. He can't be everything, to everyone, all the time. He makes mistakes—like we all do. I am not excusing him for today, though it was out of his control—but you need to figure out how to communicate what you're feeling without tearing him down," she implored, "and sometimes I don't think you appreciate how good you have it. He would do _anything_ for you, Ash. He tries his best for you and your brother sometimes when the literal weight of the world is on his shoulders. I don't know what else you expect him to do?"

Ashley nodded, more tears pouring miserably down her face. "I know," she started, a hiccup cutting her off. "I just feel like I'm the only one that still remembers Mom. Even Sam didn't seem to mind that we didn't do anything this year," she mumbled.

Sasha tilted her head to the side. "That's not true. You're smarter than that, people process grief differently. Sam misses her just as much as you do, and so does he—"

"He has you though," Ashley interjected, and Sasha frowned, trying to decern the subtext of that comment. "You make him happy, he's different when you're around, and when you're not, he's distracted. You can tell it's all he thinks about when you're gone. Like, if you're gonna be okay or whatever." Sasha blinked, her expression carefully reserved. "Sam was younger when Mom and Grandpa died, he's accepted it. Dad was a mess for a long time and I know he did his best, but he was different—and he wasn't better until you came... but he got better. People get married again—I can't have another Mom. I'm the only one left that needs her."

The explanation pulled at Sasha's heart, and she moved her head to the side, reaching out to rub Ashley's arm with a sympathetic gaze. "When I was twelve," Sasha started, pausing to take a breath because she hadn't talked in detail about this since she told Tom years ago. "My Dad died. He was an alcoholic. He battled with it for years before his liver finally gave out. I was the one that found him…" she trailed off, her eyebrow quirking slightly. "I was so angry with him for leaving me like that. For years, I thought it was because I wasn't good enough... that he didn't love me enough to stop and get better."

Ashely was listening intently, waiting for Sasha to continue. "Life can be ugly and messy and tough, Ashely. The way you feel? It's normal. You lost your Mom, and nothing will make that right, and as you get older and maybe have kids of your own, you will feel differently about a lot of things. But I can promise you, it will only hurt more if you let that anger and pain destroy what you have left," she warned, drawing her hand back to rest in her lap instead.

"Is he upset?" Ashely asked quietly, biting her lip. She hadn't expected the way Sasha's eyes watered in response, and the sinking guilt in her gut made her hands tremble.

"He's more than upset, Ash. You just said the one thing he's been scared of hearing since your Mom died," Sasha had to pause as she tried to control the tears that threatened to fall. Voice catching and breathy as she finished, "you just broke his heart."

Ashley's lips wobbled, "I'll go tell him I'm sorry." Moving to get off the bed.

"I think you need to do a little more than that this time. You need to talk to him, Ash—tell him everything you just told me, help him understand where this is coming from because you're the only one that can," Sasha said, her tone and stance letting Ashley know that this was no longer up for debate or avoidance.

"Okay," she nodded, before exiting the room.

Sasha exhaled the tension in her body, laying her head back on the bed, taking a few moments of respite before heading to check on Sam.

* * *

Tom had his back turned to the center of the bed when Sasha emerged from the bathroom. He'd been almost silent after the conversation with Ashley, which had ended on a positive note—a hug and a reminder that they both loved each other much to Sasha's relief. It appeared his psyche would not be so easily soothed, however, and it made her heart ache for him. Her weight on the mattress behind him caused his body to shift a little though not enough for her to see his face. She propped herself up on one elbow, using her other hand to cradle his cheek—turning his head and forcing him to look up at her from the pillow.

"Do you remember what you told me? After Panama?" she inquired gently, moving slightly, so he had room to lay on his back instead of his side. His eyes traveled her face, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod as she continued. "You told me that you'd love me enough for both of us. Until I figured out how to forgive myself for being human," she breathed, the fingers of her left hand resting still on his skin.

The cautious but hopeful smile Sasha gave was loving and kind, and she whispered, "Now it's my turn—and all you have to do is let me."

Tom's eyes narrowed slightly, suddenly distinctly glassy, and his lips parted a fraction as her words hit home. Offered him a lifeline from the raging waters of regret that he was drowning in. He reached forward, pulling her to him tightly, and buried his head in the space at her neck.


	16. Chapter 16

**Monday, September 17th, 2018—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

"Understood, Sir," Sasha hung up the phone more aggressively than intended. Ran a ragged hand through her hair before clenching her fist in frustration. " _Damn it!"_ she muttered under her breath. Pushed her tongue between her teeth and her gums while shaking her head with displeasure.

Alisha gave her a sympathetic look, before looking over at her Ensign La Paz.

"La Paz, give us the room," she commanded, waiting until he'd left before opening her line of inquiry. Her tone was hushed as she spoke, "He's really just going to ignore it?" the disbelief evident as she spoke.

Sasha rose her shoulders up, a sarcastic smile on her face. "Official stance is that the US cannot afford another repeat of Asia. Nor can it be seen meddling in foreign affairs in our current climate," she repeated, mimicking a generic voice for the very generic answer she'd just received from their Commander-in-Chief. Alisha huffed out a breath and shook her head.

"Admiral Chandler can't convince him?"

Sasha shot her a look. "He still thinks Tom's looking for some kind of last hurrah before retirement." The concept of it still completely asinine in her mind. "Anita and Don don't help. More concerned with domestic operations, which are important, don't get me wrong, but they're missing the bigger picture here," she ranted.

"I heard they're calling him Tavo," Alisha pressed, "La Paz said one of his cousins in Columbia tunes into the radio program. Said he's a great talker. That the people love him." Her voice laden with uncertainty. She'd been providing Sasha with data for months on the fly, helping her map communications and centers of gravity—Alisha had seen enough to echo the concerns.

Sasha peered up then, her eyes narrowing slightly, "Oh, he can talk alright. Well enough to hide the fact that he assassinated Arias when he wouldn't negotiate a trade deal," came her embittered reply.

"But we can't prove it," Alisha added regretfully. Sasha clenched lips and ducked her head instead. No, she couldn't prove it. She just knew. The timing was too convenient. The notion that right after the summit last month, Arias had suddenly developed an extreme allergy to shellfish and gone into anaphylactic shock? It was utterly ridiculous. And now there was a new President in town, Fernando Asturius. A man who was more concerned with his "image" than anything else.

Sasha shook her head again, uncrossing her arms and pushing herself away from the wall she'd been slouching upon. "He won't even let us partner with the local resistance groups." She inhaled audibly, uncharacteristically defeated as she spoke. "He's not gonna do anything until we've already lost that Canal again."

* * *

Mike peered through the crowded bar, full of Navy types—some of which he recognized from his own Command, as well as others from the rest of the fleet. It only took him a few moments to find her, and right on cue, she looked up, waving from her spot at the bar. Mike beamed as he approached, chuckling happily as they embraced.

"Good to see you!" offered enthusiastically.

"Always," Sasha replied easily, pulling back to smile brightly at him. Regretfully, it had been almost a year since she'd last seen him. Any of them, actually. Sasha was a taskmaster when it came to Vulture Team; they were always on the go. Usually deploying for months at a time to whatever hotspot needed them most. Couple that with both command centers and a new fleet, the crew had dispersed—mostly to Florida, and their schedules rarely aligned even to attend formal functions.

"You look great—I assume married life is treating you well?" he said, as they took their seats.

"No complaints, though I'm sure if you asked Tom, he'd say I'm gone too much," Sasaha remarked.

Mike smirked, "Not a fan of the shoe being on the other foot?" glancing over his left shoulder to catch the way her eyes wrinkled with a knowing smirk.

"Not so much. But he hides it well," came her retort before she inquired, "How about you? I have it on good authority that you've got yourself a girlfriend."

Mike flustered slightly before catching himself, lamenting the way her brows shot up and the look of glee that crossed her face. She caught him off-guard. No use trying to lie, not to her anyway— _damn spook_. "How d'you hear about that?" he grumbled instead. They'd been careful, or so he thought. Apparently not careful enough. Sasha caught the bartender's eye with an incline of her head, pointing to her beer and raising two fingers before turning back to Mike.

"I never reveal my sources," she admonished with a tip of her head.

He shook his and made an _"Eh"_ noise because he should have known better. Gave her a disparaging look as he took the beer that was just delivered into his hands. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar, and took a swig while she continued to bait him with her eyes.

"For what it's worth, I'm happy for you. Both of you," she said sincerely, and his expression softened, becoming wistful because, honestly, he was happy too. Truly. And though he wore his pain differently, there had been many a moment in which he'd pondered if he'd ever feel that again. If the ghosts of his past would ever let him leave the endless purgatory.

Mike bobbed his head up and down in agreement. "We're trying to keep it quiet," he said, and she smiled sweetly.

"Your secrets safe with me—though I have to tell you, Tom's been a believer since the Christmas party," she teased, earning a frown and a bewildered expression from Mike. Unsure exactly when Tom had done anything but salivate over Sasha in that dress the entire night. Further yet, what he and Andrea had done to solicit that kind of attention. As far as he remembered, they'd simply talked late into the night.

"And here I thought he was too preoccupied to notice anyone but you," he replied, raising his brows for effect. Sasha tucked her head, dropping her eyes, playing a little coy at that comment. "How long are you in town anyway?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Not long, just a few days for some meetings, and then I'm headed back to Norfolk." Smile leaving her face and settling with a telltale heaviness instead. She took a drink while Mike studied her expression. He might not be intelligence, but he was still a high-ranking member of the Navy, with the added benefit of the CNO being his best friend. He was in the know.

"It's too bad. New fleet is almost ready to go—doesn't make sense to build something not to use it," he offered. The usual suspects had been pretty vocal about their disagreement with the Commander-in-Chief's reluctance to take action in Columbia. Respectfully, of course. He just hoped it wasn't about to bite them in the ass.

"I can't wrap my head around it, Mike. How he can sit in a room full of the same people that brought the cure and ended the famine and tell us we're the ones missing the picture. It's like he refuses to see how vulnerable we still are." Her head shook as she said it, her words exasperated and quiet so no one could overhear.

Mike nodded regretfully in agreement. "Look at 9/11—how many years did we know about that son of a bitch? We still did nothing. Even with the goddamn terrorists training in our own backyard." His face scrunched up in disgust. That had been the catalyst to his decision to join the Navy, leaving behind his days as a detective.

Sasha tipped her head gently in agreement, eyes tired as she took another sip, mulling over his words in her mind. She shook her head as if mentally scolding herself, "Listen to me, you didn't come here to talk about work." She re-directed, "We should try to get together soon. I know we're planning to visit Ashley for Christmas, trying to make it a point to be around more. Maybe you and Andrea could come?"

He drew his lips down as he considered it, "Yeah," he nodded after a moment of thinking. "I was planning on being there for the ceremony, anyway. Fleet shouldn't fall apart if we spend a couple extra days in Missouri. Heard CNO was pretty pissed when I skipped out last year," said in jest.

Sasha snickered somewhat. "I might have heard something about that," came her sly reply. Vulture team had been in Venezuela at the time, and she'd spent no less than thirty minutes hearing all about Admiral Slattery's unexpected absence. "What was it again? Stomach flu?" she teased, and he winked at her, grinning widely.

His reply was dry, "Think I'm allergic to speeches." and her expression was knowing, albeit laced with mischief.

"No doubt."

* * *

**Saturday, October 20** **th** **, 2018** — **Norfolk, Virginia**

"Tom? Have you seen my—" pausing when he entered the bedroom holding a freshly laundered pile of long-sleeved shirts, the ones she preferred to wear on missions. They kept her arms protected but were still light and maneuverable enough not to hinder her in a bind.

Tom set them down on the bed wordlessly. Slowly, she straightened. Wetting her lips somewhat apprehensively. His temperament was downcast and reserved. They didn't talk about it often. The desire to spend their dwindling time together, avoiding the pitfalls of her relentless schedule on their marriage superseding those conversations. Mostly, he just missed her. The constant fear of her being hurt or killed looming oppressively over his thoughts. Like an endless headache. A headache that had steadily grown more painful with every passing year. Ever mindful that at some point, her luck was bound to run out, though voicing it was taboo.

Sasha approached him, leaving her duffel open and the last few items she'd been packing forgotten on the bed. Those impossibly blue eyes of his tracing her movements until she was in his space, head craning so she could look up at him. Something twisted in his heart then, an echo from the past. Always did when she dropped all those walls and let herself just be Sasha. Somehow, it made her look younger. Innocent, in fact. Delicate fingers reached up to touch his cheekbone, the pads still so deceptively soft and elegant despite the fact they worked so hard. They were cool against his skin, feather-light as she traced them across his cheek. Like a ghost.

The room was silent, save for their anxious, and considered breathing. Having conversations with their eyes that could never be spoken on the nights before she deployed. But there was something different this time. An underlying current of confliction in his stance. And for the first time since this started, she thought he might do it. Might ask her to stay, to make this the last mission. Like she'd told him he could. Or perhaps it was just a bad case of déjà vu—after all, she was headed back to Panama.

But what could she do? What could she say? It had always been this way for them. Constantly torn apart by extenuating circumstances or outside forces—just as powerful as the oceans of want that lay between them. No one had ever been like him. Never come close to inspiring the type of all-consuming love she was capable of. A type of love she'd never felt for anyone else, that if she were frank, still frightened her to the core. And he'd never really recovered the part of his soul she'd stolen from him when she left. To the effect that sometimes, he'd wished he'd met Darien first in the past. So he could have loved her more completely, with all the pieces of himself—not just the parts he had left.

' _We. It was always we.'_

She pushed herself up, standing on tiptoes, fingers moving across his cheek to rest at the nape of his neck. His hands on her hips, drawing her closer. Until their bodies pressed tightly together, and the tip of her nose rubbed against his. Their breath mingled in the fraction of space between their lips, her left hand resting upon the muscle of his shoulder. Strong and sturdy. Like him. An inexorable object of a man whose will could move mountains if he so desired.

Her forehead came to rest against his, and she felt warm fingers tangle themselves at her scalp, the wide pad of his thumb hot where it laid at her temple. The something in his gaze gave way to a tenderheartedness that made it hard for her to breathe. He was looking at her like he'd never see her again. Her throat constricted. The surge of feeling inexpressible, as if he'd reached inside of her chest and physically clenched at her heart. She squeezed her eyes closed, a crease forming in the center of her brows, and let him guide her head to rest against his neck. His other arm drew upward to encircle her tightly. Her warm breath tickling his skin as he swallowed against the knot of everything he couldn't say that was stuck there. Time passed inexplicably like centuries within moments, and seconds that should have been years. Neither particularly sure of how long they stayed there. Tom's nose buried in her hair as he cradled her with care, committed instead to the refuge of their bedroom. Under the blanket of night—her packing long since forgotten in favor of stealing every second and minute left until she was gone.

It was the following night, as Tom sat twirling her ring in his fingers—the tactile nature of the metal, like some sort of talisman that made him feel connected to her, that he made his decision.

His eyes traveled to the table, studying a photograph of them.

This was the last one.

The last mission.


End file.
